


I'm Being Followed by a Moonshadow

by TheFalconWarrior



Series: Collections [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Inktober 2019, batfam, short story/drabble collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2020-11-15 02:06:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 31
Words: 20,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20858441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFalconWarrior/pseuds/TheFalconWarrior
Summary: Vigilante families don't get it easy. (They're all crazy, sure, they've been told that enough times. Sometimes life stinks and sometimes it doesn't. But they are what they are and it is what it is and really, when it comes down to it they can more than live with that.)Short stories, drabbles, etc. Batfam being Batfam.Please excuse us whilst we find a title that actually sticks.





	1. Day 1: Ring

**Author's Note:**

> So. Taking a pause from "Life is a Rollercoaster"-which I have been working on for a YEAR now, wow-and this time I'm really doing one a day. Short stuff, and some of it might be a MESS (first chapter, case in point.) But hey, it's fun, and I've got drawings to match, if I can figure that out somehow.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim wears two rings--silver, well-polished, one slightly larger than the other--on a cord around his neck.

Kon was the first person to notice. It made sense, really. Tim had been spending a lot of time with Young Justice, lately. Cassie had seemed a bit uncomfortable, but the two, and Bart, had talked it over and decided...well, Bats were weird. If this was how Tim wanted to deal...maybe they should leave him to it. 

Didn’t mean they were any less worried when he took off, leaving only a note promising he was_ fine,_ he’d keep in touch, please don’t follow him or tattle on him and he wasn’t doing anything _too _stupid, promise. 

Or that they were any less firm on their stance when the Red Hood showed up, demanding to know where Red Robin had disappeared to. 

Although once Kon stopped to_ think_... 

Kon was Tim’s best friend. He’d known him longer than some of his own _siblings_. And...he’d believed in him, stood by him, when most people thought he was...crazy. 

Red Robin’s quiet plans, the ones he didn’t show anyone. The way he hid from his family, the haunted look in his eyes. 

He’d assumed the rings were his parents’, and Tim had...let him believe it. 

He wasn’t so sure anymore. 

It had taken a _lot_ of arguments before they’d reached an agreement. Jason was strongly in favor of chasing down the younger bat and _dragging_ him home, backed, to everyone’s surprise, by Damian. Steph, Babs, and Cass fought to leave him be. Alfred tried to mediate, although everyone could tell he was leaning towards Jason and Damian’s side. And Bruce... 

Bruce said nothing as he watched, one hand up to cover his mouth but face blank and empty. 

Like he had nothing to say, or maybe he didn’t trust himself to speak? 

Maybe Cass would know._ Dick _would know. But Jason... 

It should be easier, by now. But nothing made_ sense _and he wanted to _scream_. 

(There_ was_ a lot of screaming, actually. None of them were good at emotions and all of them—love, fear, desperation—tended to come out _angry_. Jason screaming that they _ couldn’t lose Tim_ (he couldn’t fail his brother—both of them—like that), Damian snarling that Drake was out to get himself _killed_, Steph arguing that Tim could take care of himself, that dragging him back into this shitshow wouldn’t _help_—Cass tended to end up in tears and leaving the room, which tended to shut up everyone quick. Babs rarely joined in but to quietly remind them that she could keep track of Tim, he’d promised not to hide—that she’d _know _if he was in trouble. That their tendency to...suffocate...never ended well.) 

Scratch that. There was no agreement. They just argued until someone _broke _down and they had to break it off. 

Rinse, and repeat. 

But when Ra’s sent a message to Bruce-- 

There was no question. Everyone was up and in arms—Jason was off to Young Justice to demand information, Damian was sneaking off to 'contacts' he claimed he still had close to the League, Steph and Cass and Bruce and Duke started getting ready to storm League of Assassin’s HQ. 

Until the Skype call from Tim. 

He was his wry, sarcastic self. Flashed around his phone as he walked, showing off the airport around him. 

_ Ra’s is an ass. Promised I wouldn’t disappear—_and he’d faltered, then, and Jason suspected he knew why (_and _dammit _he wasn’t supposed to be the touchy-feely one--_) and went on. _Coming back to the manor...ten hours, Gotham airport, don’t bother with the jet my flight leaves in ten minutes. _

He kept that promise, yeah. Jason and Damian went to pick him from the airport. Alfred made dinner. Tim ruefully shared the details of a run-in with Ra’s. Cass demanded movie night. 

They all fell asleep in the living room. 

And come morning, Tim was gone, another promise-on-a-note the only thing left behind. 

(_France, Babs told them. Nothing looks crazy right now._) 

Jason had been the first one to get the guts together to head to the heart of Gotham and climb through that tenth-story window. (When he’d noticed the silent shadow behind him, he’d said nothing. Just held the curtains back for Robin to slip through after him.) 

Except apparently, he wasn’t. The first. 

He found him in the hidden room. The one where Nightwing and Red Robin trained, kept supplies. Files, folders, coordinates and pictures open on screens all around him. 

Tim sat in a chair, head on the desk in front of him, fast asleep. One hand clutching at the rings hanging from the cord around his neck. 

Jason swallowed. He’d seen that necklace before-- 

Around Dick’s neck. 

Damian was staring at the screens, pale and wide eyed. He reached out a hand-- 

Tim_ jerked_, and Jason jumped to grab his arms before Damian got a black eye. 

He blinked at them, hair sticking up in every direction and eyes ringed by dark bags. “What are you guys doing here?” 

“Drake,” Damian said hoarsely. Swallowed. “Timothy. Grayson--” 

Tim’s own face fell, grew more tired and a little...resigned? 

Jason glanced at the screens again. It was...Tim was...looking for something? 

No. Oh, no. Not something. 

_ Somebody_. 

“Tim,” Jason swallowed, hard. “Dick is dead.” 

Tim looked up at him. And... 

Sometimes the best thing after a nightmare is company. Just...quiet company, someone to be there. Naturally, they all sought each other out when they needed that sort of thing. No one else would really...understand. 

So yeah, Jason had seen that _trauma_ in all of his siblings’ eyes. 

Still. He flinched at how_ haunted_ his younger brother’s eyes were, at that moment. 

“I know,” Tim said quietly. “But Jason...we all were.” 

They’d all reacted differently. 

They’d all gotten the call from Gordon, dropped everything to run to the mortuary, found Tim clutching their older brother’s hand. (Cold. Pale. Stiff.) 

(“_He wanted cereal_,” Tim had said, numbly. No one else was gonna do it _Dick would have_ so Jason had put an arm around the kid’s shoulders and pulled him close._ He was the oldest now and Dick had made him _promise.) 

(A gunshot to the head. Sixteen years of chasing psychopaths, of jumping into the middle of apocalypses and taking on metas and ghosts and_ literal gods-- _

And he died Dick Grayson, gunshot wound to the head in a quiet alley, witnessed by a young lady and a little girl and a mugger. 

There was a_ reason_ Red Hood used guns. Martial arts and acrobatics were all very well—but bullets were _fast._) 

After the funeral, Cass stayed in Gotham. (She wouldn’t talk. She wasn’t exactly_ loud_, before, but now...There wasn’t anything--but she’d been all the way in Hong Kong, and grief didn’t have to be rational.) 

Jason stayed in the manor, too. (He’d promised, and damn Dickie for making him agree. (_Damn _Dickie for getting himself killed in an alley mugging of all things.) )For the first time in years, muggers were found dead in alleys with the discoveries preceded by Red Hood sightings. And Batman—Bruce-- 

Didn’t say anything. And maybe he really_ did_ understand the concept of hypocrisy. (All the troublemakers quickly realized to keep it _down_ for a little while. Batman was out for blood. And Bruce_...Bruce _was hard to find, these days.) 

Damian (to Jason’s shock) was quiet. Holed up inside himself, even as he holed up in his bedroom or the family room where the six of them had always gravitated, with a whining Titus nosing at his knee and a sketchbook or book clutched in his hands even as_ empty _eyes stared out windows and into walls. Steph—she stayed at the manor, too. Tried to pull Damian out in a way only she (and Dick) ever could. 

Alfred (like Jason) tried to swallow his grief. Be strong for everyone else. Went on running errands and making sure everyone was fed and on schedule. (But he often lingered in one of the longest-occupied bedrooms in the house, stopped and just _stared_ at some object in his hands, or on the walls, during the quiet moments when he was alone--) 

Duke hadn’t known Dick as long, or as deeply, as the others. He was shaken by his death. He was...sad. But what scared him _more_ was watching all the others...fall apart. 

And Tim— 

They’d gone looking for him, when he didn’t show up for two days after the funeral. There were a few little things missing from the apartment he’d shared with Dick—and a note. 

_ Won’t do anything too stupid...won’t hide. Will keep in touch. Be safe...promise... _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So really, this is just scraps from a much longer story idea that just...settled in my head and won't leave. So once I'm done with this fic, AND the collection I'm already working on, I'm gonna write it but dear Lord it scares me cause it actually involves PLOT. (and action. I need to practice writing action...)  
Basically:  
Dick dies. Tim is...pretty sure...he's dead.  
He looks for him anyways.  
(After what happened last time, Tim decides to play it smart...and keeps his secrets close. Obviously it doesn't quite go the way he planned. Cue secret missions, nosy siblings, mayhem and misadventure.)


	2. Day 2: Mindless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick stood in front of the viewport, his thoughts floating everywhere.

_ There used to be a time_, Dick reflected, staring out at the star-speckled scene before him, _when I __u__sed to love this_. 

There had been a lot more space missions with the Teen Titans, back when he was younger. Back when Kori was newly crash-landed on Earth. Back when things like Green Lanterns and Martians were still relatively surprising. 

The trip_ there_, wherever ‘there’ was, was usually a whirlwind of planning and forced calm and last-minute training and pep talks, and likely the entirety of the time on whichever planet was mind-blowing kicking-bad-guy-butt or worse, mind-numbing _politics..._he’d always loved the trip back to Earth. 

When the mission was _over_. When he could stand at a window and stare out at the stars and comets and planets and just...just _look_. He didn’t need to _plan_, to _think _about anything, which was _so rare_ for a Bat. No next-case to start planning out, just a successful mission behind them. Just a peaceful lack of _thought _that left room for the wonder at the vast _universe_ they lived in, and really, who could _see_ all this and _not_ feel awed? 

Now...he couldn’t be._ Mindless. _Like that. His mind was moving twenty miles a minute. Limited communications, and no plan to outline, contingencies to draw, team to keep cool and he was free to wonder what had gone on down on earth while he was gone, what he would find when he got back, was everyone he’d left behind _okay_...

_“Not your fault, Goldie,” _Jason’s voice whispered inside his head. _“Now quit __moanin__’--only _I_ get to moan __bout__ my __dyin' __.” _

Dick smiled bitterly. There was_ knowing_ (though _did _he really _know_?) and there was believing, and they were two very different things. 

A soft touch on his arm. “You okay?” Donna asked softly. 

Dick smiled at her—not a beaming smile, Donna knew him too well to be fooled by that—just a quiet one, though he forced the bitterness out of it and stuffed it deep down inside him. 

“I’m fine.” 

_ Is everyone _else_? _

_ Don’t be stupid. We’ve got better comms..._maybe not Bruce, maybe not Alfred even but Jason, Tim, Cass, even Damian—they'd get him news, somehow, if they had to._ One way or another. Forget Bats, we’re _Robins. 

He let his eyes sweep over the view, looking for green and blue. 

_ When I get home, I’m calling a movie night, _he decided. 

And resigned himself to that gnawing pit in his stomach until he was back in his apartment with all his siblings close. 

(_Saf__e. __And _alive.) 


	3. Day 3: Bait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason knows he's being baited.

“Alright,” Jason said, eyes narrowed and scowl firmly in place, as though his brother were actually standing in front of him. “What do you want now?” 

“Do I have to want something?” Dick asked, and even over the phone Jason could_ hear _the grin, faux-innocent and quietly amused. 

“Yes,” he said bluntly. Why dance around it? 

“I’m hurt, Jay. I was just calling to ask if you wanted to come over.” 

“Why would I want to do that?” Jason asked, still suspicious. “Why would I_ do_ that?” 

“I made carrot cake. Thought you might want to pop over for a slice.” 

Well. 

Damn. 

The thing was, Dickie_ could_ cook beyond the necessary culinary skills needed for survival in this lifestyle, which was more than he could say for a lot of their family. (Much, _ much_ more, in Bruce’s case.) 

Something about family and cooking and shit, when he was a kid. Important stuff. 

The point was...Dickiebird made a_ mean_ carrot cake. It was like. His thing. 

Homemade carrot cake, to begin with, and Jason had never tasted one better (or, unfortunately, been able to match it himself.) 

But Dick never really put that skill to use, not unless he was cooking for more than just himself. Granted, he’d been cooking more since Tim had moved in with him. 

But carrot cake? By Dick standards, not a usual casual baking session. 

“With cream cheese frosting?” and damn it he hadn’t meant to ask but... 

“Yup.” And there was _victory_ in his voice, that little— 

Oh, he was so_ obviously_ being baited. 

But. Carrot cake. Damn it. 

“Give me half an hour.” 


	4. Day 4: Freeze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian's siblings are literal children.

It was a quiet night, Robin reflected, watching soft white flakes drift against the...relatively dark night. 

It was never _completely_ dark in Gotham, as was true of _all_ big cities. And...not quite big cities, too, even. 

Alright, so sometimes Damian missed _pure dark_ nights, lit up by naught by the stars. 

As Todd would say, sue him. 

Under a sky gray with smoke and light, the snow that blanketed the dirty streets and grimy buildings was still white. Glinting and glaring underneath lampposts. Robin allowed himself a momentary distraction, holding a glove out to the air before pulling his hand closer to peer at surviving individual snowflakes, admiring the delicate, complex, _ miniscule _crystals. 

“_Hah! RR is DOWN!” _

Or perhaps it wasn’t such a quiet night after all. Robin lifted a hand to his communicator. 

“_Corner of 23__rd __and Washington, people,” _Oracle reported. 

“_No babysitting, Goldie!” _Red Hood howled. Nightwing was cackling over the line. 

_ What on earth...? _

“Babysitting?” Damian murmured. 

“_Mind hurrying a little, Hood?__” _Red Robin complained. Annoyed. Sarcastic. But he didn’t sound...hurt. 

“Is anyone interested in explaining_ what_ exactly is going on,” Robin huffed. 

Something_ cold_ splattered against the back of his cape and he whirled-- 

Puffs of snow drifted around him, scattering off the billowing cape. A dark shape, flash of blue—a sharp salute. 

“_Would love to stick around, Dami—but I __gotta__ catch up with Hood before he gets to Little Red.” _

Another flash of blue, and he was gone again. And Damian _finally _knew what was going on. 

“_Robin down, halfway down 14__th__,” _Oracle announced...gleefully. 

“Tt.” This was_ patrol_. 

“_Well, damn. Sorry __babybird__, I’m __gonna__ stop by the demon brat, he’s closer--” _

They were all _adults_. 

“Really_, Hood? We’re supposed to be a _team,_ here...” _

And_ vigilantes_. _Crime fighting _vigilantes. 

_ “Little bat included,” _Black Bat stated. 

This was no time or place for_ childish games_. 

“_Annnnd__ RR is back in __action,__ gotta__ step up your game, __Nightwing__.” _

_ “Hey! _NO _babysitting, Goldie!” _

_ “We’re _four_ blocks away, Hood, max babysitting radius is _three_\--” _

_ “Couldn’t you have opened a separate channel for freeze tag?” _ Father’s voice was dry. _Thank God_. Father was always sensible. 

“_Sorry B_,” Nightwing said cheerfully, not sounding sorry at all. 

“_Go step on a Lego, B_,” Red Hood chimed in, _definitely_ not sounding sorry at all. 

“If you would just move on and leave_ some of __us_ to do _actual work_,” Damian huffed. 

“_It’s quiet tonight, Robin. Call it in.” _

Robin...blinked. 

“_Black Bat is _down, _Washington and Heron!” _

_ “Look out, RR, you’re next!” _

The snowball hit his arm, this time. And when he turned around-- 

Black, billowing cape against the grayed-out sky. 

“_Robin is _unfrozen!” 

_ “Woah, woah, hold up, this many people we need another tagger--” _

“_Tactical exercise,” _Batman offered. And disappeared. 

Robin smirked. Well, in that case... 


	5. Day 5: Build

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing about cities is they're constantly being built and rebuilt.

There were days when Jason would be having...a perfectly good day. 

No fight with Bruce, or Dickie, or the Demon Brat. A nice dinner from Alfred. Teasing and jokes and laughing and general messing-around with his 'siblings'. 

And then he’d be walking, chatting with Goldie, and turn into a door that_ wasn’t there anymore. _

That kind of thing could sour a person’s day real quick. 

It wasn’t even just the manor, where there were missing doors and new hallways and everything was just...off. Red Hood had his own territory labelled on the Bat Map, and he knew it like he knew the double guns holstered on his belt. 

But the rest of the city... 

It was mostly little things. Old shops closed, new chain-supermarkets. Once under-construction buildings now finished, new towers blocking sights he should have been able to see. Half-built skyscrapers where the sky used to be empty. Overpasses and bridges, sidewalks where people had once wandered shoulders. 

For God’s sake, there was an entire _street_ missing. 

He’d been dead. And the world had moved on without him. 

But he’d come back. Back to life, back to Gotham, back to the Manor... 

And yet as he stumbled through the city and what had once been his home, he could never _quite_ fight that overpowering sense of _loss_. 

Dick noticed first. (Of course he did, this was bleeding-heart Goldie here.) 

And he started...starting_ games_. In the moments when the night was quiet. Tag. Freeze tag. Cops and robbers. Blindman, once, with Dick as the blindman and Bab’s voice as his eyes (although Bruce had put a stop to _that_ one pretty quick.) 

(Hide-and-seek in the manor. Usually set off by a prank, or a series of pranks, and devolved into half of those involved running for cover whilst the other half sought them out, swearing deadly vengeance.) 

And at first Jason was _livid_. 

Bad enough that he felt lost in the city he’d grown up in, lived in all his life. But for Dick to just _rub it in his face_... 

Dick’s voice would announce a game over the comms, and the sounds of a mad scramble from the four corners of Gotham would ensue. But Jason_ refused_. (Even if he was the one tagged by a snowball. Even to the point where he’d turn off his comms if need be.) 

But dearest Dickie must’ve recruited the rest of their siblings into his fight, because sure the Demon Brat was always a pain, but Replacement was usually _civil_ during patrol and Cass was usually _nice_. 

Now though? They all_ needled _him. Crowded him, showing up wherever he turned, until he was streaking over the Gotham rooftops alongside the rest (although usually cursing them all out the whole time). 

But at some point, he realized... 

He knew that Red Robin knew that virtually nobody could find him if he melted into the shadows in the southwestern-most neighborhood of the Coventry. (There were too many of them.) 

He knew Nightwing liked to cover half a block on Kane Street with one massive sprint-leap-swing-jump-roll involving Wayne Tower (although no one else was as crazy, so no one else did). 

He knew there was an alley between two residences on Reynold Street so narrow no one ever really noticed it. (Black Bat liked to hide out there.) 

He knew there was a falafel cart usually parked at the Farrel Street entrance of Aparo Park that was Robin’s favorite. (After his first visit, he understood why.) 

He knew there had to be a faster way from Newton to Robert Kane Memorial Bridge than the overpass near Exit 15. (Because Batman always beat the rest of them there.) 

And he knew—and _only_ he knew (as far as he knew, anyways)--that the quietest way through Chinatown was an abandoned underground railroad line parallel to Main Street. (There was old graffiti on the walls, though, and he would carry to his grave the idea that he’d left a few marks of his own.) 

(And after all that up, down, over, under, around and through—Gotham was_ his_ again.) 


	6. Day 6: Husky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's ONE good thing about this mission, so far. (Make that, about eight good things.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much for "I'm actually doing one a day!"

It was a secret he would carry to his grave. But Damian really,_ really_ hated the cold. 

He was born and raised near the desert, in a part of the world where the days were almost always _hot_. He could stand the cold, most definitely. No doubt about that. He could forge on through chest-high fields of snow. Grapple and fight and _win_ in freezing waters. He could... 

But it didn’t mean he had to_ like_ it. 

He stood beside Father, fighting the_ irritating_ urge to wrap his arms around himself, curl up to preserve body heat because thermal suits or not _it was still so god __damned __cold_. 

“When will our transport get here,” he asked finally,_ knowing _he sounded like a child but _annoyed _enough that he didn’t _care. _

“Looks like they’re running late,” Father said, squinting up at the hills. 

“We _have_ appropriate transports in the batplane,” Damian muttered. 

Father simply smiled and tapped his shoulder twice. “Mission objectives, Damian. We need to blend in.” He straightened, and Damian heard the faint sound of shouting and...barking? “Looks like they’re here.” 

As the sled pulled into view, Father started forward. Damian snapped to attention and stumbled after him, finally scowling and deciding to just_ take the easy route_ and step in the footprints the man left behind. 

Father immediately began to speak with the man at the sled—their contact. But Damian’s attention was drawn to someone else. 

Leaving his Father to it, he stepped over to the beautiful animals hitched to the sled. They panted and eyed him, and Damian smiled, holding out a hand. 

“Well hello, there.” 

(Truly, meeting the dogs almost made the_ cold_ worth it.) 


	7. Day 7: Enchanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people just hold that kind of spell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh. Dunno bout this one, really. Felt a little tall tale?  
But I wasn't quite sure what to write. So here we are.

It was a novelty for two-year-old Tim Drake, when Dick Grayson pulled him into a hug as their parents posed for the camera behind them. He’d rarely ever received a hug before, and would rarely receive one after. The warmth of the hug, the smile, even the excited “I’m gonna do an extra-special flip just for you!”, given so freely by someone he’d_ just met_, stayed with him (even after falling and screams and bodies and a tear-streaked face--). He’d like to say it was for the rest of his childhood. But he’d have to admit it was his whole life. 

(Bruce didn’t know what he was doing, taking in an eight-year-old. He_ didn’t know_ how to raise a child. He was dark and (if Alfred was correct, and let’s face it, Alfred was always correct) broody, he was _Batman_ for _God’s sake-- _

When it came to the sorrow, the grief, Bruce still knew what to do. He_ understood_. And so he helped the boy beat back that darkness... 

And revealed a noisy, _happy_, _ceaselessy __energetic_ little boy beneath. 

And Bruce? Didn’t know how to deal with_ that_. Not _constantly_. Not as _his own child_. 

He stumbled a lot, in those days. 

Dick though, didn’t seem to mid. He was still a happy noisy kid determined to drag everyone else into his happiness kicking and screaming, and eventually Bruce found that he didn’t resist so hard.) 

When Tim finally_ actually_ got to meet Dick Grayson, he was excited on multiple levels. 

This was Dick Grayson, the boy who’d given a random little boy his first experience of warmth and _affection_ so freely. The first Robin, his childhood idol, who ran the streets just to help people who needed it. And Nightwing, who Tim couldn’t keep as well track of, but...leader of the Titans? International hero? Even intergalactic, if word was to be believed? Enough said. 

And_ after_, he became Nightwing, his mentor. Dick, his Big Brother (long before Bruce had adopted _either_ of them). 

(When Jason Todd first met Dick Grayson, he’d been_ excited_. To meet _Robin. _THE _Robin_. 

And sure, the guy refused to actually call him_ Robin, _and he _was_ a bit of a jerk at times, but he offered a phone number, said he’d be there to talk to. But they were really too busy doing their own things, dealing with their own issues, to actually spend time together, get to know each other. 

It was only really after Jason came back to life that he _really_ met mother hen, golden boy, _freakin__ ray of sunshine_ Big Brother Dickie Grayson. 

Roy _laughed_ at him when he grumbled about it. Told him that Dick was one of his best friends, too, so he was gonna explain. Dick’s sudden interest had nothing to do with guilt over Jason’s death, he claimed. 

“That’s literally what he’s_ actually like_. You just knew him when he was going through a rough patch is all.” 

Further investigation and interviews (whining and amused explanations—that was_ not_ what it was, Goldie, shut up--) revealed similar info. 

Jason was_ so screwed_.) 

Although he still couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud, Tim was comfortable enough with himself now to admit _he’d missed Dick_, during the whole Damian fiasco. 

Talking to clear the air had helped a lot. And even though Tim never doubted Dick would_ be there when he needed him_, it was a little while before he could truly _trust in him _again. 

It was once Tim was older, more experienced, and relatively more comfortable in his own skin that he began to worry for Dick. Saw how his brother tried to take care of every member of their messy family, where someone almost always seemed to be fighting with someone and too many of them never wanted to_ admit_ to needing help, ever. 

Including Dick. Who always thought he had to be a rock, a tether, and thus tried to shove his problems out of everyone else’s view. 

(It worked more often than Tim would like to admit.) 

Big brother, resident ray of sunshine, best coverup actor in the family. Even if Tim better understood his brother’s humanity, held him to more realistic expectations, he was still enchanted. 


	8. Day 8: Frail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim can feel his fragile hold on his sanity slipping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More "fragile" than "frail", but. Well.

Tim was going to_ explode. _

And it was stupid, really. He’d lived through_ apocalypses_, through parents and best friends dying, he’d nearly _died himself_ _how many times_, for God’s sake. 

So as of right now...nothing was wrong, really. 

(Sure, there was a case with Penguin that_ didn’t seem to be getting anywhere_. And there were _goddamn finals _coming up, regents and APs and SATs to study for and final projects to hand in. And his dad was being a little bit of a jerk, and he was juggling knives trying to handle the man _and_ a confused Dana, and Ari was acting weird and...) 

Still. This was just...everyday. No one was dying, the world wasn’t ending,_ there was no reason why he should want to bang his head into a wall and scream and cry. _

There was no reason for him to be biting back tears as he stepped through the school gates, brushing past other students without acknowledging any of them. 

The sight of a familiar figure leaning against a motorcycle in front of the school was enough to stop him in his tracks. To confuse him enough that a resounding_ hunh__? _overpowered his swirling thoughts. 

“Hey, little brother,” Dick grinned, his hundred-megawatt-public smile, though it quickly faded into something smaller. (softer. gentler._ more real_.) 

“Hey,” Tim replied automatically. Trying to collects his thoughts. _And it shouldn’t be this _hard_. _“What’s up?” _Is something wrong? _

“Nothin’ much,” Dick said cheerfully. “I just realized we haven’t hung out much recently.”_ Liar. They’d had hot chocolate on a rooftop during patrol just last night. _“Figured I better rectify that.” 

And confused as he was, Tim found he could never say_ no_ to an offer like that. 

The moment Tim had his helmet on and his arms wrapped around his older brother, Dick revved the motorcycle and shot off down the road. 

“Where are we going?” Tim yelled over the wind rushing past his ears, and felt his heart leap as Dick took his eyes off the road to shoot him a grin. 

“You’ll see!” he yelled back. 

Tim decided it’d be better not to talk, the rest of the way. 

It wasn’t long before he realized they were heading in the direction of the manor, and not long after that that they were turning into the gates and towards the imposing structure. 

“The manor?” Tim asked. 

“Not quite,” Dick replied. And said nothing more. 

He turned the bike onto a dirt path that passed the manor, slowing down as they twisted and turned past the stables and a fountain and some little shack that Tim had honestly never noticed before. Eventually Dick stopped the bike, motioned for Tim to get off, and left it leaning against a tree, throwing an arm around the younger boy’s shoulders and leading him off the path, into a wooded area and deeper into the Wayne property. 

They stopped around where Tim estimated would be the edge of the property. Dick plopped down on a log, and Tim lowered himself beside him. 

He could hear water, and closer inspection at the empty space in front of him revealed a creek. They were_ surrounded_ by trees, brown and green and (weirdly enough) some yellows, the soft chirping of birds in the trees, the pops and crackles of small animals moving about unseen, and Dick’s breathing beside him jumbling into a quiet melody. 

“Scream,” Dick said suddenly. 

Tim blinked. “Hunh?” 

“No one can hear, here.” As if to demonstrate, he threw back his head,_ screaming_ into the trees above them. 

Tim clapped his hands over his ears. A tad dramatically. “The hell, Dick!” 

Dick just grinned at him. “Your turn.” 

Tim blinked, slowly. Stared out at the creek. 

_ Scream? _

Well. This was awkward. 

Dick waited quietly. 

Tim cleared his throat. Coughed a little. Filled his lungs. 

Let the air out slowly in a deep breath. 

_ For God’s sake... _

He took another deep breath and didn’t give himself time to think about it just 

_ SCREAMED. _

And he didn’t really mean to, honestly, but as soon as he’d made that first noise--every bit of feeling poured into that_ release of sound_. Every ounce of anxiety and drop of frustration, the loneliness and anger and doubt and fear and _confusion_\-- 

Poured into that tortured cry, echoed around the trees and tapered off into silence. 

Tim huffed a little, an almost-laugh, and scrubbed the sleeve of his hoodie over his wet, stinging eyes. His face was wet. (it didn’t do much good.) 

Dick still didn’t say anything. Just tossed an arm around his shoulders and tugged a little, so Tim sorta unbalanced and fell into his side. He didn’t bother to pull himself back up. Dick didn’t seem to mind. (He squeezed his shoulders and loosened a little but didn’t let go. Held him as Tim took deep breaths, trying to stop the little hitches in his breath.) 

It was only when he was breathing like a normal person again that Dick finally spoke. “You wanna talk about it?” 

Tim huffed again. “I’m not even completely sure what _it _is,” he admitted. 

Dick hummed, running a hand up and down his arm. 

“That...helped, though.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

Quiet. 

“Thanks, Dick.” 

Gentle pressure against the top of his head. 

“Anytime, little brother.” 


	9. Day 9: Swing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a tire swing in a plot somewhere behind Wayne Manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a pile of homework, several unfinished drawings, and a mess of a room to deal with but I can't focus on any of it. Also I need to be up early to babysit.  
Instead I'm up at 12 posting this. (facepalms).

There’s a tire swing hanging in a garden on the Wayne Manor properties. 

Dick and Bruce put it together, when Dick was nine and got it into his head that he wanted to make a tire swing. So after much wheedling, Bruce got one of many old tires from the garage where he tinkered with his cars, and a sturdy rope from the Batcave, and they set out to find the perfect tree. 

(They found it in a largely abandoned, overgrown field. Bruce wanted it closer to the manor, but Dickie begged, and Bruce was still learning to withstand puppy eyes. And so they wrapped the rope around the tire and a sturdy branch, and Bruce pushed Dick on the swing for half an hour before they had a picnic over the rough, weedy grass and headed back to the manor, Dickie seated on Bruce’s shoulders.) 

(He brought Barbara, Wally, Roy, and Donna to play on the swing at one time or another. And even as he got older, he would slip out to the field sometimes. Dick Grayson wasn’t allowed to fly in public. It would just be one link more between Bruce Wayne’s ward and the crime-fighting Robin. So he’d go out to the tire swing in an overgrown corner of the property, and swing,_ fly,_ out in the open air, in the _sunlight_ again where no one could see him. 

It wasn’t perfect. But it had to do.) 

Jason found the swing one day while, bored and lonely, he was exploring the grounds. He’d wandered from cobbled roads to dirt paths, but it turned out the dirt paths made a _damn labyrinth_ and he was now very, _very_ lost. 

His first thought when he found the swing was “Thank God, a sign of civilization.” Which, okay, made little sense. 

But still. It was interesting. 

He poked at the tire. Tugged as hard as he could to see if the rope would snap. Then—tentatively—climbed on. 

He kicked himself off the ground. Pumped his legs, went higher and higher and_ higher_— 

Jason laughed. (He hadn’t laughed like that in a long time. Not since he found his mom on the living room couch, staring at the ceiling.) 

(He never actually found his way back to the Manor. Bruce found him, just as the sun was setting. 

He went back, sometimes, later. After fights with Bruce, after bad nights. It was as good a place as any to be alone. Maybe better than most.) 

Tim, like Jason, found the swing during a quiet exploration of the Wayne properties. 

He studied the object with a detective’s eye. Fairly expensive brand of tire—no surprise there. Old and weathered enough to have been there several years. Rope was definitely bat-grade though—so not Bruce’s, probably had been put together for Dick. Or Jason? Tim knew precious little about Jason Todd, but he’d been older than Dick when he’d come to the manor. Too old for a tire swing? 

Still. He could imagine the boy bumping into the thing while exploring the grounds. And what kid could resist a tire swing? 

Tim couldn’t. 

He’d grown up a rich boy. His parents were never around, but they made sure he had books and toys and whatever else they thought a child needed to stay entertained (all of it usually quite expensive). 

Obviously, a tire swing was never an idea that crossed their minds. It had never crossed Tim’s either, to be honest. Not that there would have been anyone to build one with him if it had. 

It was too bad. The swing was _fun_. (Five-year-old him would have loved it.) 

(Life as Timothy Drake was busy, with patrol in Gotham, Young Justice, school, hanging out with Dick or Cass or his friends, and training, training, training. But sometimes he was alone at the manor, with nothing to do, and he’d head out to the swing. 

He could imagine Dick as a child, laughing as he flew through the air. Jason was a little harder to conjure. But the memories of his predecessors—his brothers, boys, people, not just Robin—were good company.) 

Cass tilted her head to one side. “It’s a tire.” 

Beside her, Damian tilted his head to the other side and let out a_ Tt_. “It is hanging from a tree.” 

“Tire swing,” Cass said triumphantly. 

“Evidently.” 

Cass grabbed the rope, nodded approvingly. Then climbed onto the tire and looked at Damian expectantly. 

“Push me,” she demanded. Damian let out a long-suffering sigh, but obliged. 

The wind whipped her hair around her face as she _flew_, and Cass whooped. It felt—amazing, like swinging through Gotham skyscrapers and jumping off buildings, but—but doing it for _no reason_, it was _fun_. 

Once the swing settled into a light swaying motion, she shook her hair out of her face and grinned at Damian, who raised an eyebrow, unimpressed because. Really. A_ tire swing_? 

“Your turn,” Cass said, hopping off. 

Damian let out a _Tt_, but. He was curious, he couldn’t deny it. 

He settled himself on the tire, clutching the rope with both hands. Cass braced her hands against the tire and_ pushed_. 

It wasn’t long before he was_ soaring_. He’d never quite appreciated Grayson’s love for air and flying and reckless, flashy moves, but this-- 

Considering how he spent his nights, it shouldn’t have been, really. But it was_ exhilarating_. 

They stood side by side, again. Heads tilted in opposite directions. 

“Come again?” Cass suggested. 

Damian pursed his lips. “It’s a location worth remembering,” he agreed. 


	10. Day 10: Pattern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One early morning, Damian reflects on routines (and lack of).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's official!  
I can't stop writing. :P  
Welp. I'm probably screwed but. Okay. This is okay.

Damian sits cross-legged on the couch, small scowl on his face. 

It’s a quiet morning. Outside, the air is misty and within the manor he can feel the whisper of the chill in the air, although the manor is heated and warm. Pennyworth is in the kitchen, and Damian can hear the soft sizzle of something on the stove, the sink running. 

He has an assignment due the following day, and he wants to get it done right now. 

And truly, Damian can appreciate poetry. True,_ literal_ poetry. The...things...his classmates write? 

It’s atrocious. 

But here he is, notebook and pen, sweeping mind and memories for some inspiration to write a poem on the theme of_ routine_, of all things. 

There’s a creak of leather, and Damian looks up to find Father, cup of coffee and newspaper in hand, settling into the leather armchair he prefers. (Jason will call it the “dad chair” and snicker when Father doesn’t know how to respond.) 

“Morning, Damian,” he says with a smile, and Damian nods back. 

“Morning, Father.” 

He turns back to his assignment. Routine. Being as they are, routine has a tendency to be defenestrated at moment’s notice, but he tries to think of what routine a_ normal _day entails. 

He has always had to wake early in the morning for school. School is a bore, but Colin Wilkes is in the same class as him this year (thanks to a Wayne scholarship) and the boy can be...enjoyable to spend time with. (They often swap patrol stories from the night before. Wilkes is a good storyteller, even if Damian’s own stories are always the more exciting.) 

When he returns home immediately after school (he_ refuses_ to engage in any 'after-school activities', his brothers’ jokes about their ‘extracurriculars’ notwithstanding), he will usually have a small repast with Pennyworth in the kitchen, before spending an hour training. (It’s always been a good way to release his pent-up energy after hours upon hours at _school_.) 

There’s homework to be done, time for sketching or drawing or reading or, if he’s sneaky enough, research for cases before dinner. Then it’s down to the cave to prepare for cases, train with father, get ready for patrol. 

Patrol is the highlight of every day. 

He senses another presence in the room and glances up. It’s Timothy. He exchanges smiles with Father, glances Damian’s way and offers a tired looking half-smile (must have been up most the night, would explain why he’d spent it at the Manor) before flopping down on the other couch, book in hand. 

Stripped bare, Damian’s routine is simple enough. Thinking broader, he tries to correlate his whole family’s routine. 

Early mornings every day for himself, Thomas, and Pennyworth, but the others would sleep in given the chance. School for himself and Duke, Wayne Enterprises for Father, college or WE for Tim depending on the day, Dick off to GCPD, Alfred to his errands, and who knows what their final, legally dead brother did for a day job. 

Lunches, homeworks. Training and detective work, relaxation time and errands. Dinner rituals. Patrols. 

“Morning.” Grayson, of course, announces his presence to the room at large. Damian half-listens to a few words exchanged between Father and the oldest Wayne boy before the man was standing at his shoulder. 

“Whatcha doing, Damian?” 

“Homework,” Damian answers, settling his pen against the notebook. “And as amusing it is to observe the collections the system puts together for middle school poetry sections, the assignments can be...a pain.” 

“Need any help?” 

...he would’ve appreciated it, if he was being honest, but he doesn’t quite see how Grayson could help him write a poem, so he shakes his head. 

Grayson ruffles his hair and he sighs long-sufferingly as he bats the hand away. Why was Grayson even at the Manor, anyways. Working the same case as Drake? 

Grayson’s presence disappears from behind him, and he turns back to his assignment. 

Obviously, Damian can’t write about the_ lack_ of routine that fills their lives. Random siblings showing up at the Manor (50% of the time, to use the Batcave) or spending the night after a difficult patrol or long night. He can’t write about adventures with Jon or Colin. Gotham-emergencies, national emergencies, international emergencies, galaxy-wide emergencies, even, he’s heard, interdimensional emergencies. 

The couch dips. 

“Thomas,” Damian greets, without looking up. 

“Hey,” Thomas says. 

Maybe he could write about acclimatizing to new routines every time his father adopted another child. Hm. 

Although that may be deemed inappropriate. (Todd would get a laugh out of it, though. Maybe the rest of his siblings as well.) 

Father is nearing the end of his newspaper. Grayson had somehow slotted himself behind Tim, who is leaned against his shoulder, both of them reading the book. (He never quite understands how they do it. Sure, Jason reads out loud at times, Grayson and Drake too, rather...sharing the story. But Grayson and Drake would simply be reading_ from the same book __at the same time_. 

He had the feeling that reading-over-people's-shoulders was supposed to be an annoyance but Dick and Tim had made an activity of it. Enjoyed it, even. 

He’s getting off-track. 

He’d been hoping to take advantage of his teacher’s lack of expectations for the class to write a simplistic poem and be done with it. As much as he appreciated poetry, he could admit, within his own mind, that he wasn’t quite_ good _at writing it. 

He resigns himself to writing something very abstract, because strip the secrets from the concrete details, put in 'normal-people-being-normal' replacements, and there’s just-- 

Mornings. Meals. School. Work. Errands. Time-fillers. 

“Breakfast,” Pennyworth announces from the doorway, and Damian gathers up his supplies as everyone shifts, beginning to rise. 

Really, take out all the important things to leave behind a ‘normal’ life and it was really rather dull. (How do people stand living such dull lives?) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damian may be raised as an assassin and all but he's still human. Nature vs. nurture, and although he's surprisingly mature in some areas sometimes he'll still think like a kid.  
(Also. Reading books together was something me and my sister used to do. Most people didn't get how we could stand having someone over our shoulder the whole time.)


	11. Day 11: Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce's kids have crazy ways of using their time.

Bruce pressed his fingers against his eyes as he contemplated getting out of bed. 

It had started snowing last evening. Batman had called off patrol early, when it became evident everyone would soon be snowed in. Once they’d gotten back to the cave Robin had immediately changed, and Damian headed up to the manor (he claimed there was something really important he had to speak to Duke about. Bruce just hoped Alfred would be able to head off any impending arguments between the daytime vigilante and their resident Robin.) 

Batman, on the other hand, had stayed in the cave until the earliest hours of the morning working on a Justice League case. 

Whilst Brucie Wayne had the notoriety for late arrivals that often allowed Bruce to snatch an extra hour or two of casework or sleep, it was a reputation he tried to avoid exploiting when it came to Wayne Enterprises. Bruce Wayne, CEO had to appear just competent enough to hold the company. 

Lord, the last thing he needed was to get kicked out of his own company. Logistically, it wasn’t too big a deal anymore thanks to Tim, who was still in line as Bruce’s replacement. 

But his kids would never let him hear the end of it. 

So although Bruce—who knew he’d really pushed it last night—wished he could have stayed in bed until two in the afternoon (something he had done in his younger years), there was an early morning meeting Lucius had said was important enough that, if it snowed, they’d be doing through a conference call. 

Reluctantly, he threw off the warm, heavy covers and sat up. His bedroom was warm and dark, and he enjoyed the current silence of the manor. Duke and Damian had a cordial enough relationship, neither fighting nor roughhousing, and whilst Bruce hoped both boys would become more comfortable with each other soon... 

All things considered, Bruce knew he should probably appreciate the quiet while he could. 

He finally stood up and threw open the curtains, filling the room with the pale, thin light of a cloudy winter morning. 

His window overlooked the grounds at the front of the manor. He stared absentmindedly out at the snow... 

Blinked, and looked harder. 

Rows upon rows of snowmen. A veritable_ army_, arranged in ranks. 

All of them turned towards his window. 

Smiles and grim slashes, and some of them didn’t even have mouths. Some of them waved. Another had pointed pieces of bark sticking out of its head and a grim expression, and he just_ knew_ that was supposed to be a Batman. Another (definitely Jason’s) was somehow making a rude gesture with its twiggy arms. He recognized Dick’s soggy winter hat standing limply on the head of an angry-looking snowman wielding a sword made of two branches tied together with someone’s winter scarf. And that...that snowman was either smoking or sticking its tongue out at him. 

Bruce shook his head, lips turning up at the edges, and wondered if his kids had already made their escape, or if he’d be able to throw a few snowballs before the day was over. 


	12. Day 12: Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Damian's birthday.

Alfred sighed as he stacked his and young Master Damian’s plates. 

It was a shame, really, to spend the young man’s 13th birthday this way. Just the two of them, alone, down in the batcave, sharing the cake Alfred had baked. 

Miss Cassandra had sent her well-wishes from Hong Kong earlier. Masters Richard and Timothy had promised Alfred they would stop by, but the night was almost over and they had yet to make an appearance. Bruce was off gallivanting in space with the League (and alright, Alfred knew he was probably on some important mission but. The man had a child to raise.) Master Jason...Alfred was honestly unsure where the man was. Apparently the only person who _did_ was Master Dick, who steadfastly refused to crumble under any interrogation. 

Alfred planned to have _words _with them all. (Except Miss Cassandra. A phone call, that’s all he was asking, just to let the boy know he had not been forgotten.) 

“Pennyworth--” Alfred broke out of his thoughts to turn towards the boy. 

It would, of course, be at that moment that the cave filled with the rumble of a motorcycle—two motorcycles. 

“Hm.” They both watched as the two bikes—red and black and black and blue—appeared in the tunnel and pulled to a stop at the platform. Nightwing swung a leg over his bike and leaned forward to catch Red Robin as he slid off his. Alfred stepped forward, alarmed, and opened his mouth to call out—but Nightwing merely steadied his younger brother on his feet before he headed towards the stairs leading down to the main level of the cave, Red Robin trailing behind. 

“Well, I certainly didn’t expect to see you two here,” Damian sniffed as the pair stumbled up to them. 

Alfred swept his eyes over his charges. Both had ash in their hair and streaked over their costumes, which were slashed in several places—Master Tim’s cape had been_ shredded_. 

“Hi,” Richard mumbled as he approached. Behind him, Tim was slowly peeling off his mask with one hand. “Sorry--were s’posed to stop by—Titans mission went out the window. Happy Birthday, Dami.” He reached up and massaged the skin at the edge of his mask. “Need a_ shower_ dammit ‘m sorry berightback.” And so saying, he stumbled away. 

“Master Richard,” Alfred began, but Master Tim’s voice gently cut him off. 

“’s fine, Alfred, we got patched up at the Tower.” Alfred frowned. He wanted to know _how_ exactly his boys had gotten injured, and how bad it had been that while they’d been in enough of a hurry to return that they had yet to shower, they’d had to receive medical treatment before leaving. 

But Master Tim had removed his mask, and Alfred could see the exhaustion in his almost vacant eyes. So he postponed the conversation for _after _the pair had had a good night’s rest. 

Abruptly, Tim dropped a basket onto the table in front of Damian. “From me’n Dick, happy birthday brat.” That said, he disappeared after Dick. 

Damian slowly raised his eyes from the basket to meet Alfred’s eyes. Blinked. 

Alfred blinked back. 

_ Well. _

Clearing his throat, Alfred procured his own present from the chair where he’d left it, resting it next to Tim’s basket. 

“Happy birthday, Master Damian.” He began to gather up the dishes. “I will be back momentarily. Please do wait for your brothers to return before opening the presents, Master Damian, it is tradition to open them in the presence of the givers.” 

When Alfred returned a few minutes later with fresh tableware, Master Damian was still seated at the table, fingering the basket. Richard was sprawled out on a training mat, a fleece blanket thrown over him, eyes closed and breathing evenly, and Timothy was curled up in the chair by the batcomputer, wrapped in his own afghan, watching Damian with tired eyes. (He would probably fall asleep there, soon enough. It wouldn’t be the first time, either.) 

Alfred could swear that Damian’s eyes lit up as he approached, before growing conflicted again as he glanced towards Dick, fast asleep on the floor. 

“Just go on ahead,” Tim murmured. “He’s wiped out, and...well. You really can’t wait to open that one, I’m afraid.” 

Damian glanced Alfred’s way, and he nodded, a little bemusedly. Damian immediately pulled the basket forward and flipped the lid. 

And froze, a shocked look on his face. 

Alfred stepped behind him to peer over his shoulder. There was a small...creature. Kitten-sized. Olive green. Scaly. Reptilian? Curled up and apparently asleep. 

“His name is Fred,” Tim offered. 

“Is that,” Damian said, and stopped. 

“Baby dragon,” Tim said. 

Damian frowned. “Fred?” 

Tim shrugged. “Roy started calling him Fred. It just kind of stuck.” 

The frown turned to a scowl. “That is a ridiculous name. We may have to change that.” 

“Good luck,” Tim snorted. “He’s already responding to ‘Fred’.” 

Alfred felt like they were missing the important things, here. “Master Timothy, where, exactly, did you and Master Richard acquire a dragon from?” 

What followed was a long and convoluted tale of a Titan mission gone wrong, and a baby dragon orphaned. At the insistence of several members, the team had dragged the poor creature along with them as they tried to make it out of their current situation. In this time, Roy Harper had christened the dragon Fred, Wally West’s reflexes had saved him from being burned, multiple henchmen had been attacked by a fire-breathing baby reptile, and Fred had grown attached to the hapless group—particularly Nightwing and Red Robin. 

At the end of the day, the Titans returned to the Tower with a baby dragon, and were forced to figure out what to do with him. Nightwing and Red Robin had suggested they had a place. (Partly, because_ someone_ had to; partly because they didn’t trust the rest of the Titans with a baby dragon; and partly because (and this, Master Timothy did not say, but Alfred _knew_) it was Damian’s birthday and the boys knew he would love the creature.) 

“Hm.” Damian reached out to brush a finger over the dragon’s head. The little creature stirred, then wobbled up, crouching on its front legs and stretching its tail out. It blinked, revealing bright orange eyes, and a small puff of smoke drifted from its nostrils. 

Alfred began to wonder if he would be forced to enact revenge on the boys for bringing a fire-breathing creature into their home. 


	13. Day 13: Ash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's always a little off-putting when these things happen during the daytime.

They hit the grass in a roll, and Damian easily rolls out of his grip and into a crouch. It’s a move he’s taught himself after years’ worth of nights being shoved out of harm’s way by larger vigilantes. Tim knows it pretty well himself, after his tenure as Robin, even if he’d never had it down pat. 

Damian put a lot more effort into learning that move. 

It’s probably too...Robin. But. 

Tim’s spent his entire vigilante career compartmentalizing. Robin, and Tim Drake. So it’s more natural for him to land flat, shove himself into a sitting position. 

There’s small fingers tugging at his sleeve, and Tim rolls to his feet, grabs Damian’s wrist and backs up, staring at the flaming car now a few feet away. 

Tires screech, a van pulls to a stop a few feet away. “Oh my God, are you _okay_?” 

Tim whirls. He’s still clutching at Damian’s wrist (realizes a little dazedly that Damian is gripping his—an acrobat’s grip, like Dick taught them, like Bruce taught them, the one they used when they patrolled, when someone was falling) and the younger boy stumbles a little as he’s dragged along. 

“Yeah,” Tim says. Glances back at the car. One of Bruce’s. How. How? “We’re--we’re fine.” 

The driver who’s been speaking to them is a middle aged man. Family-style van—chip crumbs on the seats—the man seems comfortable in the car, Tim’s willing to be he’s a father. He smiles. It’s a nice smile. Reminds Tim of Dick, a little. 

Tim swallows. 

“Did you call 911?” the man is asking. He’s opening the door, stepping out. 

Tim takes an instinctive step backwards, shaking his head. 

Right. Call cops. Why is he backing up? It’s just a man. A fairly nice man. And even if he turns out to be a threat Tim and Damian can take him down together, easy. 

Cops. Tim should’ve called 911, should be calling, why does he keep glancing at the car? 

The man has stopped, pulled out his phone. “It’s alright, I’ve got it. Maybe you should sit down, son--” 

He’s still smiling. 

Dick. Tim wishes Dick was here. 

Damian squeezes his wrist. 

Tim kinda wants to cry. He wants his big brother. 

“Timothy?” 

_ Christ, Drake, get a hold of yourself_. 

What the hell is wrong with him? 

“That was...unexpected.” 

Tim huffs. It comes out as a laugh. High pitched and he knows it sounds hysterical. He can feel tears slipping down his face. “No_ shit_.” 

There’s a hand on his shoulder, and he jerks away from it. 

“Hey, easy,” the man murmurs, and kinda leads Tim to kinda lean against the side of the van, Damian following along. 

Tim glances at the car. 

Bruce...Bruce is gonna be pissed. Shit. 

“Hey.” He looks up again. “I called 911—they'll be here soon. Is there someone you should call? Your parents?” 

Tim nods. Tears his eyes away from the car. Reaches into his pocket. Freezes. 

His phone is in the car. They’d had it hooked up to the aux cable. 

Tim didn’t grab it when the front of the car had burst into flames. 

Obviously. He has priorities. 

Damian tugs his wrist, and when Tim turns, wordlessly hands him his own phone. 

Tim takes it. 

He lets go of Damian’s wrist, and Damian pulls his arm away as though he’s been burned. 

His face is carefully emotionless, but Tim is a master of emotionless faces. He sees the flicker of...something in his eyes. 

Tim wraps an arm around his younger brother, tugs lightly as he swipes Damian’s lockscreen pattern. (Distantly, he looks forward to when they’re thinking straight again and Damian can yell at him for knowing the password he’d never actually told him.) 

Damian is stiff against his side as Tim he raises the phone to his ear. 

They’re blessed, really. There’s so many people they could call. 

But the kind man with his kind smile is still watching and Damian is relaxing against Tim and Tim knows the kid has to be as shaken as he is, and Tim still wants his big brother. 

“Hiya, Dames.” 

Tim swallows. His eyes are burning again. “Dick?” 

“Tim? Timmy, are you okay?” 

Of course, Dick picked up something was wrong with just the one word. 

“Dick--the. The car.” His brain feels like it’s shutting down. Goddammit. He’s staring at the car again. Squeezing Damian closer. “It’s on fire.” 

“What?” 

“The car is on fire.” 

“Oh my God. Tim. Are you guys okay?” 

“Yeah. We got out.” He can hear sirens. “They--someone called 911. They’re coming.” 

“Okay,” Dick breathes, and Tim knows him well enough to hear the forced calm. “Where are you, sweetheart?” 

“New York Road,” Tim tells him. “We were coming back to Gotham.” 

“Okay,” Dick says. “I’m coming.” 

Tim can’t help but sag against the side of the van. Slides down, taking Damian with him, until they’re both sitting at the side of the road, Tim’s head resting against the car, Damian resting against Tim. 

There’s an ambulance and a fire truck and two squad cars pulling over, the sirens blending with Dick’s voice over the phone. The man (Tim doesn’t know his _name_) stands over them, watching as car doors open and people start jogging over. 

They’re okay. Damian. Tim. 

They’re_ okay_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my sister and I were driving down the highway and there was like, this big van literally in flames at the side of the road. There were a whole lot of people gathered around and fire trucks, but the firemen were laughing together so I hope everyone was okay.


	14. Day 14: Overgrown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When exactly does one become a grown-up?

“Happy birthday!” Wally hollered once he’d vibrated through the other side of the door. 

Dick just raised an eyebrow as Wally appeared next to him. The redhead threw himself back onto the couch and tossed an arm around Dick’s shoulders. “So, how’s it feel to be a_ legal adult_?” 

“It doesn’t feel any different,” Dick said dryly, and Wally straightened, the joviality draining out of him. All his Robin-senses were instantly on alert. 

Ah, shit. He’d meant it as a joke. 

He turned to_ look _at Dick, and realized the younger man looked...terrible, in a word. 

There were dark circles under his eyes, which were missing the spark that had seemed to be ever-present back when they were kids. 

(It’d been getting rarer and rarer, that spark. More and more likely for Wally to find his best friend’s eyes looking...dull, when it was just the two of them. When Dick wasn’t trying to pretend. 

Not that he’d ever really fooled Wally. He always knew when Dick was putting on an act. 

He went along with it, most of the time. He didn’t really know what else to do.) 

And Wally had never really realized it was possible to be slumped and tense at the same time, but. Well. Here was Dick. 

“You wanna talk about it, man?” 

Dick buried his head in his hands, fingers digging through his hair. “I know...I know I wanted this. Bruce—he didn’t kick me out. I_ left_. I wanted this.” 

Oh, boy. Wally opened his mouth to start on just_ what_ he thought of that, but Dick kept going. 

“But it’s--I don’t know what I’m doing, Walls. I should know what I’m doing by now, shouldn’t I? I always told him not to treat me like a kid but. I don’t know. I’m an adult now, right?” 

“Dick...” 

“I thought I’d get better at it. But I never did.” He looked up at Wally then, and Wally stared into his exhausted, desperate eyes and wished he could maybe use the speed force to go back in time. Make Dick’s life at least a little less messed up than it was. 

“Is it really any different? Does anyone really ever just...feel like an adult?” 

Wally tugged Dick a little closer as he considered what to say. Dick went easily, leaning his head against Wally’s shoulder. 

“No,” Wally said, finally, simply. “No, I don’t think they ever do.” 

Dick hummed against his shoulder. 

“Dick,” Wally said, and when the younger boy’s eyes flicked up to his face, Wally went on. “I...just want you to know. You don’t have to...be an adult yet, got it? It’s not like you hit some age and bam, you’re supposed to know it all. It’s okay, if you’re still trying to figure things out. We’re all here for you, bro. Me and Roy and Donna and Garth, and probably Supes and Uncle Barry and even Wonder Woman, if you ever want them. You don’t have to go it alone, yeah?” 

Dick looked back down and nodded. 

“Sorry,” he muttered after a bit. 

“Huh?” 

“For being. I don’t know. Such a wet blanket.” 

Wally made a sound of protest, but Dick spoke over him. “Shouldn’t we be celebrating or something?” 

Wally paused. “Well, actually, I was supposed to drag you back to the Tower for a surprise party.” 

He glanced around. “But if you’d rather we could skip out on that. Get pizza and watch crappy action movies. Call the others to join us, if you’d like.” 

Dick was quiet for a moment. “Did Roy make a cake?” 

“Yup.” 

“Chocolate?” 

“What do you take us for? Of course it was chocolate. Donna and I would've _forced_ him to make a chocolate cake if he hadn’t already.” 

Dick nodded. “I think...I want to get out of here for a bit.” 

Wally gave him a squeeze. “You got it, Rob.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scribbles.   
Going backwards and trying to make canonical sense, Dick was pretty young when he left home.   
Wally's trying.


	15. Day 15: Legend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world mourns a fallen hero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like this one very much tbh, but I'mma be honest--I kinda want to get this chapter over with.  
Based off of the unpublished Nightwing #30  
(the one that got replaced by a brawl in the batcave that yes, I am still annoyed about)  
and my Inktober drawing!  
https://thefalconwarrior.tumblr.com/post/612983580817293312/  
If anyone's interested

When Nightwing was unmasked, the whole world was shocked. 

Not all of them recognized Richard John Grayson—son of John and Mary Grayson, adopted son of Bruce Wayne, Bludhaven gym instructor, former director at the Cloisters. 

But to see someone—a masked vigilante, a hero, fighting alongside aliens and superpowered individuals to save the world, or just appearing in the night to save the unlucky victims of an everynight crime—to see someone who had always seemed a little_ more_ than a man, without the mask that had set him apart...to see a devastatingly _young _face, beaten and bloody and still... 

That shock was quickly overpowered when the news leaked that_ Nightwing__ was dead_. 

The world remembered, and the world mourned. 

In Gotham, Bludhaven, New York City and Chicago, the Nightwing symbol showed up all over the streets. Painted on doors, spray painted on the sides of buildings, drawn in chalk in playgrounds, formed out of blue plastic cups jammed into chain-link fences, shaped from post-its in the windows of college dorms, proudly displayed on homemade banners hung from almost every window and balcony in the city. 

In other cities, the symbol graced windows, balconies, doors, walls. Maybe not with as much frequency, but definitely with as much heart. 

Bright blues, dark blues, navies, light blues, flowered and checkered—any kind of blue, it seemed, that the artists had been able to get their hands on. 

The signal over the GCPD was lit up, but it didn’t call in the Bats. No. 

The Nightwing symbol shone high above grim, gray Gotham for all to see. 

The media was full of stories. 

All over the world, people had a story about the man in black and blue. 

Fires. Aliens. Muggings. Shoot outs. Mutant plants. That time the world almost ended. 

Some of the other heroes shared their thoughts, too. 

He was a leader. The guy everyone trusted. A good friend. A hero, one of the best. 

(And others talked about Dick Grayson. The guy who helped the elderly tenants at his apartment building get their groceries onto the stoop. The guy who’d taught young kids how to defend themselves. A guy who always had a smile for everyone he met.) 

Haly’s circus was performing in Seattle. 

The ringmaster announced that the night’s show was in honor of a fallen hero. 

The entire lineup performed in black and blue. 

Including the current acrobat troupe, who performed an act that hadn’t been seen in the past fifteen years. 

The Titans held their own memorial when they added Nightwing’s statue to the memorial in Titans Tower. 

Every single Titan, past and present, attended. Several of them showed up out of costume. 

(Which all led to some surprising faces, but if anyone had any comments, they left them for later.) 

There were theories, involving the rest of the Waynes. 

Bruce Wayne publicly denied the allegations, and asked that the family be allowed to mourn in peace. 

Jason Todd very nearly punched a reporter bold enough to approach him. 

Timothy Drake, when asked for a comment regarding how close Nightwing and the other Gotham vigilantes seemed, looked at the reporter with red, swollen eyes and said, “Well, where were they when my brother died?” 

A public funeral was held for Richard John Grayson. 

It felt like all of Gotham—and a lot of people who were definitely_ not_ Gotham—attended the memorial. 

They buried Dick Grayson in the Gotham graveyard beside his parents, and his grave was engraved with the words _dearest_ _brother, son, grandson, friend and hero_, because he wasn’t a legend, not to the Waynes. He was their brother. Their son. Grandson. 

People remembered. 

People mourned. 

They remembered Nightwing. 

But they mourned Dick Grayson. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So like. I struggled with this one, I really did. Cause, being mainly a batfam reader and of largely 90s-early 2000s comics at that, Nightwing #30 was the first time I saw someone do a hero funeral and there were a lot of scenes I loved. Especially cause, you know, NIGHTWING.  
BUT I found that the whole stupid storyline doesn't quite WORK unless Bruce is a real jerk, and because this series has, as a character, not-a-jerk Bruce, I scrapped all the specifics...and got...this.  
Kinda tall-taley, again. But like. I guess that's what happens when. you know.  
Idk. I'm honestly just gonna post it and move on.  
I AM gonna post the other one I wrote, too, though. Someday.


	16. Day 16: Wild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Marches are holding a gala tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY halfway done.  
I felt like this one was a bit...eh...but idk how to fix it?

Jason leaned against the steering wheel and let out a long breath, _bored_, as he continued swiping through his phone. Almost 1:00, and still nothing. He had half a mind to just start up the car and _leave_. 

Which was, obviously the moment that there was a rap on the window. 

He clicked the locks without bothering to look up, and knew it was Cass by the rustle of silk as she climbed into the passenger seat. 

He glanced at her, sideways. “Hiya, Cass.” 

“Hello,” Cass replied, and promptly got to work pulling off her heels, removing bobby pins from her hair and shaking it out, and started tugging at the shimmery floor-length purple gown. She scowled as she shifted to pull the fabric out from under her. At least that was her only problem. It was a loose, flowy dress—she_ hated_ anything that restricted movement. 

Once she’d gotten out of the dress, revealing the tank top and jeans she was wearing underneath, she dumped it onto the floor of the car next to the heels. Jason still hadn’t looked up from his phone, so she leaned over to take a peek. 

The back door clicked open, and they both glanced at the windshield to see Dick’s reflection, already pulling off his dress shoes. “Hey guys.” 

“Hey,” Cass smiled. 

“Dickie,” Jason intoned, still not looking up. “Abandoned the baby birds?” 

Dick pulled a face. “Champagne’s starting to get to people’s heads, had to get out of there.” 

Jason snorted as the door opened again, revealing a confused-looking Duke and a pissed-looking Damian. 

“Sup guys?” 

Damian raised an imperious eyebrow at Duke, who blinked and shook his head. “Nuh-uh,_ you_ get in first. You’re smaller.” 

“What difference does that even make, Thomas?” 

“You’ll fit with that weird bump thing in the middle.” 

“I’ll fit behind Todd’s chair.” 

“I’m older.” 

“Just get in, Dami,” Dick said, amused. 

“Grayson--” 

Jason interrupted. “Get in the damn car, Damian, or I’m locking you out.” 

Duke apparently had had enough because Damian squawked as he fell into the car. Dick took the opportunity to drag him further in, and Duke slipped in after him and shut the door. “Don’t think that’d work. Bruce sent us out.” 

Jason finally looked up from his phone as he and Cass twisted around to look at Damian. 

Damian huffed and folded his arms. “Christine Harrow was bragging about her poodle,” he announced. “She claims he’s been trained to walk upright and delighted in providing video.” 

Jason whistled. “Hoo, boy.” 

There was a tap at Dick’s window, and a click as Jason pushed the locks again, but Dick jerked a thumb towards the other side of the car. 

“Hey,” Duke protested, but Dick just grinned as the door popped open. 

“Hey guys,” Tim said, sliding in. Duke shifted, shoving Damian closer to Dick. 

“Tt.” 

Dick looked at Tim’s face and raised an eyebrow. “Alright, who was it this time?” 

Tim smirked. It was his Red Robin smirk. “Martin Crowley.” 

"Annnnnd?” 

“In short, Merge Incorporated has quiet links to an international smuggling ring and is trying to set up a foothold in Bulgaria. It’ll be a_ real_ disappointment when they find out Wayne Enterprises has already had...dealings with some Bulgarian officials and basically secured a deal.” 

Cass nodded solemnly. Dick mirrored the gesture, looking thoughtful. 

“’Nother score for Timbo,” Jason huffed. 

Duke raised an eyebrow. “That’s not legal, is it.” 

Tim raised an eyebrow back. “Vigilantism is illegal, Duke. But actually, facilitation payments are a legal business practice.” 

“Isn’t it a bribe?” 

“A legal one.” 

Damian rolled his eyes. “Tt.” Tim shrugged. 

“I just need more time to finish up the case, but I can’t exactly just_ let_ him keep going just ‘cause I can’t expose him yet.” 

“Well, ‘nough business,” Jason announced, turning the key in the ignition. “We’re all here, let’s blow this hellhole.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once in a while, when Bruce has managed to drag all his kids to suffer alongside him at a gala and the city is largely quiet and already in capable hands, Jason (who is to his never ending...smugness...exempt) will wait for the rest of his sibs to ditch Bruce before they go off somewhere to have some midnight sibling fun.


	17. Day 17: Ornament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim kinda thought he liked it better when his parents went to parties by themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to write rn lol but.

Tim Drake’s parents took him to a gala when he was eight. 

He’d only been to one other gala before; he was four, bumped into his mom and was banished to the tables five minutes in, had an allergic reaction that made his entire face swell up, met Dick Grayson, and got sent home. 

It was...an experience. 

He still remembered how Dick had told little Timmy they should hang out together at galas. Eight-year-old Tim knew it was wishful thinking to hope he’d remember, it was four years ago; but he couldn’t help it. 

Also, Dick was twelve now. In Tim’s experience, twelve-year-olds were more likely to consider eight-year-olds babies than eight-year-olds were to think of four-year-olds as babies. So even if Dick_ did _remember him, Tim didn’t know that he’d actually want to spend time together. 

It turned out that it wasn’t even an issue. Bruce Wayne had made a last-minute call that he couldn’t attend. 

Tim was old enough now that Mom could sit him down and outline the rules. Smile, be polite, speak only when spoken to. 

_ Don’t embarrass anyone_. 

The night was full of fake smiles and cold eyes. Tim smiled and smiled and let the sharp-nailed ladies pinch his cheeks and listened to his parents introduce him as_ our son, Timothy_ and tried to figure out what everyone was hiding under tight eyes and upturned lips and pointedly-subtle inflections. 

He hated every second of it, even more than the time his entire face had swollen up and he’d lost both his Mom and Dad and Dick had to take him to the Wayne’s butler. Mr. Pennyworth. 

He spent the rest of the night thinking up adventures in his head, although it was a little hard when he had to pay attention enough to smile. And nod and shake his head and_ yes, ma’am_ and _n__o, sir _as needed and, for God’s sake, Timothy, don’t bump into anything. 

Over the next week, the Drakes were invited to three more parties. Not galas, but dripping with the extravagance and one-uppery that Tim would come to associate with galas and rich people. 

At the end of the week, Tim watched his parents’ car disappear from the driveway, and a terrible thought popped into his head. 

_ At least I won’t have to go to another rich-people party._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I think it's funny that there are certain characterizations of certain characters that are my favorite and they're often not the ones I use when I write. Idk what I'm doing with the Drakes half the time tbh.


	18. Day 18: Misfit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duke doesn't know if he'll ever belong.

When Duke first joined the family, he felt like a misfit. 

He’d just been adopted by_ Batman_, and the _Robins_ and _Batgirl _(well, she wasn’t Batgirl anymore, that was Stephanie Brown, but then most the Robins weren’t Robins—you get the idea) were calling him their brother. 

You know, the Bats. Gotham’s vigilantes. The ones Duke’s been seeing and hearing about for his whole life. The ones who fight the crazies in Gotham, and the earth-invading aliens and the earthbound idiots who wanted to take over the planet. Or part of it. 

And he was just Duke Thomas. Not an orphan, but on his own nonetheless. An unremarkable kid from the Narrows. A key member of the We Are Robin movement, sure but-- 

But why him? 

He’d never really know about how Damian had once touted his position as blood son even_ more_ loudly, and pointedly avoided the hall where there hung five photographs, each of Bruce and a newly-adopted Wayne, all smiling. 

He did get the idea that he was lucky he’d missed out the time when Jason was running around Gotham beheading people. That...was a can of worms that, as far as he knew,_ everyone_ tended to avoid, most the time. 

He’d hear, eventually, about how Tim had created an entire fake uncle after his dad died. It was too good of a story to be kept quiet forever. But he’d never _completely_ understand the implications of the fiasco taking place after Bruce offered to adopt Tim. 

He wouldn’t realize why, exactly, Cass operated in Hong Kong. Why she’d first left Gotham for the city she’d eventually fallen in love with enough to stay. 

And he’d never meet the lonely, red-eyed little circus boy, sitting curled up atop a too-big bed in a too-big room and a too-big house, wondering just what exactly he was doing there. 

He watched the seven (_seven_) people who were pretty much legally his family, now. He watched them talk together and laugh together and fight together. He watched them tease and argue and _be_. He watched them _live_ together, and...the only way he could really put it was, they fit together. 

He didn’t know,_ yet_, that one day he would, too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'm losing it lol help


	19. Day 19: Sling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robins and hugs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These were all written very far apart from each other in wildly different times and YOU CAN TELL.

_ (Tim’s hugs tend to be quick, light and shy--) _

It was just a little thing, really. Bruce knew Tim was a Star Wars fan, and when he’d seen the tickets, the first thing he’d thought was_ Tim would love this_. 

Just a little thing. 

So it was a shock when he suddenly felt arms around his waist—just for a second, gone before he’d realized what was going on enough to consider hugging back. 

Tim smiled at him, small and shy. “_Thank you_, Bruce,” and then he was gone. 

_ (Because he’s never sure if they are welcome. Except with Dick--) _

“Dick!” Dick beamed as Tim flew down the stairs, and his smile softened as he found himself with an armful of younger brother and a head full of dark, soft hair in his face. 

He squeezed and pressed a kiss against his hair. “Missed ya too, Little Brother.” 

Tim held on for a few more seconds, and Dick appreciated it. Just one more person in his life he didn’t have to be afraid to love. Who didn’t seem reluctant to love back. 

_ (And the YJ team--) _

“Group hug!” Bart yelled, and then they were a laughing tangle of arms and heads and legs. 

_ (Because they’re all close enough that they’ve shared a lot of hugs before--) _

“Can I have a hug?” Tim whispered, and there were instantly arms around his shoulders. He pressed his face into a welcoming shoulder and relished the feeling of being held. 

_ (and to have expressly let him know it’s alright.) _

_ (Jason hugs like my brother.) _

“Heya, Timbo,” Jason hollered, and Tim glanced back at him. 

_ (Using his superior size and strength to throw an arm around you--) _

There was suddenly a heavy arm around his shoulders. 

_ (Drag you in--) _

Tim felt himself land against Jason. His head hit the older boy’s shoulder. 

_ (And __kinda__ half-hug--) _

This was...unexpected. Of all people he hadn’t expected a hug from Jason. 

_ (For like ten seconds--) _

And then the arm tightened around his neck and Tim was instinctively jabbing backwards with a nerve-strike. 

_ (Before he’s literally cutting off your windpipe instead.) _

“Heya, Dickface!” 

Dick prided himself in reading people (even if he was no Cass), and he was ready when Jason’s arm, heavy and casual, landed over his shoulders. 

It was warm, and genuine, and Dick had mastered the art of appreciating the moment even as he prepared to deliver a nerve strike in the most inconvenient place he could reach. 

_ (...Jason only ever hugs his siblings.) _

(_Dick is a hugger._) 

“Heya, Dames,” Dick said, dropping his bag on the sofa. 

Damian folded his arms, lifted his chin. “Grayson.” 

Dick smiled easily, stepped over to put his hands on Damian’s back and pull his little brother in for a hug. 

He smiled a little wider when the kids’ arms rose to wrap around his waist. 

He gave the kid a small squeeze. “Missed you too, kiddo,” he murmured, and Damian pulled back with a huff, a ‘tt’, and a “Don’t be ridiculous, Grayson, you were here yesterday.” 

Dick just laughed and ruffled the younger boy’s hair. 

(_…although he’ll take what he can get._) 

Dick didn’t bother to fight the smile that spread over his face as he scanned the paper, even as Bruce went on stuttering in front of him. Ignoring the man for the moment, he leaned over the console to sign his name. 

“Bruce. I get it.” He and Bruce didn’t really do hugs anymore, not in years, but the man already looked so hilariously awkward that Dick considered throwing him off just a little extra. But in the end he settled with putting a hand on the older man’s shoulder, knowing Bruce could read his smile and his eyes. “And I love you too.” 

_ (Family and friends, group hugs... _) 

“It was so good to see you all again,” Donna said, and made the first move, grabbing the person closest to her, which happened to be Dick. 

Who wasted no time in wrapping an arm around her waist whilst at the same time reaching out his other arm to pull in Roy from the back of his neck and also snag Wally’s jacket. 

“Big hug!” Lian cheered from somewhere in the middle of the pile, as Garth let out a small “oof”. 

Dick would bet it was probably Roy who dragged him in somehow. 

“Titans together,” someone half-chuckled, and when they untangled themselves—be it a smirk, a grin, a beam, a small, quiet turn of lips—they each had a smile on their face. 

(_or just a good ol’ fashioned hug) _

Dick poked Alfred’s shoulder, and when the man turned, Dick went in for a quick hug. 

“Thanks, Alf,” he whispered, felt Alfred pat his shoulder before he let go. 

(_It’s just easy for him to unironically throw an arm over someone’s shoulder_) 

“I’m back,” Nightwing announced, dropping a paper bag to the rooftop. 

Robin spared him a glance and a grin. “I noticed.” 

Dick snorted, ruffling the kid’s hair as he rustled through the bag, pulling out two foil-wrapped gyros and pulling back the foil slightly to peek inside. 

“Huh, looks like they put hot sauce in the chicken. Pick your poison, Robin.” 

“_Not_ the hot sauce,” Robin said immediately, and Dick couldn’t help but start laughing. 

Tim_ pouted_ at him, cheeks turning red. “I don’t know how you _eat_ that stuff.” 

Dick tried to smother his chuckles as he handed Tim his own gyro, tossing an arm around the little bird’s shoulders. “Ah, Timmy, I know. No need to explain away your spice-intolerance.” 

Tim scowled (pouted harder) as he unwrapped the foil on his own gyro, muttering, “I got it on my_ hand_ once and it _burned--” _

“Sure,” Dick grinned, and squeezed the kid close, once. He left his arm around his shoulders. “Anything change while I was gone?” 

(_pull them in for a side hug_) 

“That’s a win for Team Not-Red!” Dick cheered, and Steph whooped as Cass tossed her armful of snow in the air like confetti. Dick laughed, wrapping an arm around each of his little sisters and pulling them close. 

Damian folded his arms and clicked his tongue as Jason, still lying on the ground half-buried with snow, snorted. “Y’all are just weird.” 

Cass wrapped an arm around Dick’s waist and stuck out her tongue, Steph mirroring her from Dick’s other side. 

“Freaky,” Tim’s voice commented from somewhere, and they should really find the kid— 

_ (wrap them in his arms if they’re upset_.) 

He couldn’t stop himself glancing Jason’s way every few minutes. Jason, for his part, refused to take his eyes off the screen. 

He didn’t even snap at Dick for staring. 

Jason swallowed. Clenched his jaw, harder, scowled even as he blinked_ hard_ and even with the glare from the TV Dick could tell his eyes were brighter than usual. 

He’d had enough. 

He leaned forward, grabbing Jason’s arm, and the younger man tensed. He tugged, gently, and Jason resisted for all of two seconds before he let Dick pull him closer, burying his face in his brother’s shoulder even as his trembling turned to outright shaking. 

Dick, for his part, just shifted to wrap his arms around Jason’s shoulders and rest his chin in his little brother’s hair. 

_ (Even if he doesn’t know them all that well.) _

“You alright, Maria?” Dick asked, crouching down next to the little girl huddled in the corner of the gym. 

The child hugged her knees a little tighter. “’M fine.” 

Dick just nodded. “You mind if I sit with you for a little while?” 

She eyed him a little suspiciously, then shrugged. “Sure.” 

Dick let himself fall into a sitting position, hands braced against the floor. 

They sat there in silence for a few minutes, watching the other children with the other volunteer instructors. 

“It’s Mother’s Day next week,” Maria blurted suddenly. 

Dick felt his heart sink, already knowing where this was going. “Yeah.” 

“I miss my mom,” Maria said wetly. 

There were words people said, words people had said to him, some of which helped later, some of which didn’t. Dick opened his mouth. 

“Can I give you a hug?” he asked, quietly, and when Maria nodded, leaned over to wrap his arms around the kid. 

She didn’t hug him back, or hold on to him, or anything, just turned her face and shook as her tears soaked them both. Dick turned a little, too, blocking her from the rest of the gym’s view, and held the little girl as she mourned. 

(_It’s just something that comes to him naturally._) 

(_Damian doesn’t hug.)_

Damian didn’t move. Just nodded, face mostly impassive, but hoping the gesture displayed sufficient appreciation. 

(_ Like Tim, he doesn’t ever know if they’re welcome... _) 

He paused, unsure. This...seemed like an appropriate moment to initiate an embrace, if Grayson’s ‘popular culture training’ was anything to go by? But. That was Grayson’s ‘popular culture training’. 

Damian had no idea what the appropriate response at the moment was. 

Thankfully, Grayson didn’t seem to care, because he pulled Damian into a hug anyways. 

(_ and being small he would tend to be the more vulnerable party in the exchange.) _

“Heya, gremlin,” Todd greeted, and the moment a heavy arm landed across his shoulders Damian rolled under and_ away_. 

“Don’t even think about it, Todd.” 

(_ He’ll take his siblings’ hugs... _) 

Drake had already whisked away Cassandra’s bags and was headed towards the airport doors, bickering over the phone with Todd about where the man had ended up with the car. Cassandra watched him, amused, for a moment, then turned to Damian. 

She smiled, first, then wrapped her arms around him. “Good to see you, little brother.” 

Damian nodded, first, then returned his sister’s embrace. “You too, Cassandra.” 

She let go and the exact same moment he pulled away. 

(_ And a few exceptions...) _

“Yes! This is awesome!” 

Damian sighed long-sufferingly as Jon grabbed him in a bear hug, patting the other boy’s shoulder a few times until he’d calmed down enough to let go. 

(_ but he almost_ never_ initiates one. _) 

“Father,” Damian said. 

Father smiled at him tiredly from the cot. “Damian.” 

“You’re alright,” Damian said, and Father’s smile softened further. 

“I’m alright,” he agreed. 

Damian didn’t let himself think before he moved forward and threw his arms around the man. 

There was a moment, and Damian nearly pulled back, but then there was a heavy hand on his back and one in his hair and he relaxed. 

“I’m glad,” he whispered, and didn’t let go. 

(_ ...again, a few exceptions. _) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a very awkward series of events I very nearly hugged my uncle the other day.  
Under ordinary circumstances this would not be so awkward...apart from, ya know, 2020 and also a little the fact that my whole family isn’t really much on the hugging thing most the time. 
> 
> In other news, whenever I write from Damian's POV I have to write everything out with Bruce as 'Bruce' first then go back and change all the 'Bruce's to 'Father's.
> 
> In OTHER other news I just saw a random picture of my sister and very nearly cried. Living twelve hours away from someone important to you just STINKS sometimes.


	20. Day 20: Tread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quiet moment with the Wayne kids.

"Hey Tim,” Dick called, and Tim startled out of his thoughts, turning away from the full moon over the ocean. 

“Hm?” 

They were walking along the beach, back towards the boardwalk, the parking lot, the car, home. To one side was the ocean, dark and almost black now, and to the other side of the narrow beach were cliffs topped by woods, the rustling of leaves, the buzz of insects and the occasional call of some small animal blending with the lapping of waves rocking against the sand. Jason and Damian had gotten way ahead while Tim had been lost in his head, and were now two small black lines in danger of disappearing into the darkness in front of him. Glancing back, Dick and Cass’s silhouettes, their features barely visible, stood against the pink and blue-gray swirl of sky. 

Dick was grinning. Still limping, a little, and Tim hoped he hadn’t twisted something worse. In all honesty, maybe they shouldn’t have walked this far, or maybe Dick shouldn’t have, but Dick was Stubborn and they were all a little—for lack of a better word—careless when they were bored. Cass, it seemed, was keeping pace with their eldest, whilst Jason and Damian had wandered ahead as they argued. So had Tim, lost in his head and wondering if he shouldn’t have brought his camera along, although he’d instinctively kept himself between both groups. 

“Why’re you walking all alone there?” Dick asked. 

Tim fought the upwards tug of his lips. “It’s strategic,” he deadpanned. “This way if something decides to run out and grab someone it’s most likely to be Jason and Damian or you and Cass, and from where I’m at I’ll have a good chance of running.” 

He’d slowed to a snail’s pace as he talked, so Dick and Cass caught up easily. Dick grinned as he slung an arm over Tim’s shoulders. 

“Or it’ll go for you first, seeing you all alone,” Dick teased, and Tim snorted. 

“If it’s hungry, you and Jason are probably best bet.” 

Cass poked him in the ribs. “Easy prey,” she grinned. 

Tim swatted at her hand. “_ Dick _ is limping. That’s easy prey.” 

Something hooted, somewhere, and Dick huffed. “Y’know what, let’s not tempt fate, shall we?” 

Tim squinted into the distance, trying to make out the last two members of their party. “And hope that Jason and Damian haven’t already been taken, although we wouldn’t be so lucky.” 

That earned him an elbow in the ribs from both Dick and Cass. 

“Hey!” 

They moved on, joking and talking about other things as they slowly headed along, three trails of footprints in the sand behind them. From the woods, large, tawny eyes blinked, following the huddle of figures as they passed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can't tell, I love the beach.  
Based off true events, lol.


	21. Day 21: Treasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim's always been something of a collector.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was gonna be a happy story, then it was gonna be a very sad story, and now it's this. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

There are very few things from Tim’s childhood he still cherishes. With time, years of vigilante-ing, and two younger siblings, Tim’s grown and changed enough that even with the rose-gold tint of old times and long-lost loved ones, previously fond memories raise enough red flags to make him squirm. 

But it’s a past he’s left behind him. No one hardly ever acknowledges it, because Tim’s issues have never really been loud, and neither has Tim himself. Persistent, yes. But not quite_ loud_. 

Anyways. Tim’s been on the move for years, now. From his parent’s home to Bruce’s, and back to the Drake’s; that stint in Central City before coming back to Gotham before he’d moved to Bludhaven with a fake uncle before he’d moved to the manor before he’d left Gotham then lived out of safehouses before he set up at the Theater. The last place that had truly felt_ home _was the Manor. It was only when he’d moved _again_, into a new apartment with Dick after his older brother had come back from Spyral and Tim had finally gotten fed up with Ra’s knowing where he lived, that Tim felt at home enough to consider moving some of his older things in from the Manor. 

His room at the Manor is Dick’s old room. There’s still a few of Dick’s posters up on the walls, a few books on the bookshelves; things Dick had left behind when he’d first left, grown out of, and Tim had never bothered to remove. There’s not much. Dick was never really a collector. No, that’s Tim. 

When Dick, Damian, and Alfred had left the Manor while Bruce was gone, they’d left with sheets over the furniture and most personal belongings packed up and put away. Including Tim’s. He’d been a different person, after that year, so a lot of those boxes ended up shoved under the bed and untouched. And although the Manor would always be a home in some way, it hadn’t been_ home_ enough for Tim to fill up the room again with anything precious. 

It’s a sad thought, really. But it just is. 

He’d stood in the doorway for a moment, tapping his fingers against the frame. He’s spent enough time here, in between nights and weekends spent at the Manor and those weeks he’d stayed in-between leaving the Theater and finding a place with Dick. But somehow...those thoughts had never occurred to him before. 

He’d shaken it off and headed over to kneel by the bed. Some things—his books, his skateboard, his photography equipment (except for the camera, which, apparently, Dick had taken to the Penthouse with him) had long ago found their way out from down here. But he still pulled out box after box neatly labeled in Alfred’s hand, before his fingers hit cool metal—and he paused. 

Two tin IKEA boxes. He’d forgotten about those. 

And now here he is, sitting with his back against the bed, thinking about memories and childhood. (He’s only a teenager, still, he knows, but for him, ‘childhood’ ended when he was twelve. It was a whole ‘nother era, after that.) 

The first thing he sees after taking the lid off the first box is photographs. Random things—the gardens at the Drake’s place, birds, a few city pictures. Three layers down, the tin is full of ‘Batman and Robin’ pictures. A lot of them his earliest attempts, before he’d really figured out how to use the camera and develop the pictures. 

He remembers. The top pictures were the ‘parent-safe’ photos, just in case, because Tim’s always been a pretty smart kid. 

The other box is full of trinkets. Knick-knacks. Random little things his parents had brought him from trips over the years, or things they’d left behind and he’d picked up. There’s a Batarang he’d found when he was nine. Little gifts from kids he’d met running the Gotham streets and rooftops with a camera, kids he’d befriended. Remnants from old hobbies and fads. Trinkets from friends long drifted away, and still close. Things he’d picked up to remember, to treasure. Moments and memories that he’d thought he’d treasure forever. 

He sits amongst the pieces of his childhood, pinching his fingers lightly. 

Trinkets. Gifts. Memories. And yet somehow nothing like the beads that dangle from his wrist sometimes, the black leather bracelet with the sun charm, the cord with five paper beads because Bart was a literal_ child_ at times. Not like the many stolen hoodies and t-shirts in his closets and drawers. 

When he finally moves, he puts the Batarang and a few other choice knickknacks into the photo box, and his “mom and dad” photos into the other tin. Keeps the one box, and slides the other back underneath the bed before shoving all the other boxes after. 

The box...feels like a time capsule. A collection of memories. They’re pieces of him, he knows. Things that have made him who he is. 

He won’t get rid of them. But right now...he leaves them for later. 


	22. Day 22: Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She just stares, and stares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY, NOT A HAPPY CHAPTER. Involves a dead kid. Probably what's classified as hurt/no comfort.  
Yeah, just felt the need to...put that there, cause that...doesn't seem like the kind of thing I usually write.

The park is empty, which is good. 

It’s midnight so of course there’s no families, no kids. But it’s Gotham so there may have been...other people. But there’s no one. So. That’s good. 

Robin sits on a swing, gloved fingers wrapped around the chains. Drifting, slowly. Back-and-forth. 

Robin can feel the stare. The burning, burning stare, and knows, just knows, that seated on the next swing is a little girl. A pale little girl in a white dress, with unsmiling, blue lips and cold, flat eyes just. 

Staring, staring. 

Robin kicks a foot, and the swing rocks, harder, harder. 

Pit in stomach. Acid bubbling up throat. Robin says nothing. Robin doesn’t know what to say. 

“I’m so sorry,” Robin whispers. It doesn’t feel like enough. “I’m sorry. I tried.” It’s not enough. But Robin has nothing more. 

The stare_ burns_. Through cape and kevlar tunic to scarred, bruised skin. Itching, prickling, burning. 

Fingers clenched around chain. A scream bubbling up, shallow breaths. 

(Why? 

Robin was supposed to save people.

Robin should have been faster. Should have been stronger, smarter, _better._

Robin failed.) 

“Robin!” 

The call cuts through the silence. Robin knows the girl is gone. But the stare still burns through the uniform. 

“I’m_ sorry_," Robin whispers. Eyelids slip shut. And the tears come. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ever come back to something you made and just kinda go...?????? That's been happening to me a lot lately.


	23. Day 23: Ancient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred Pennyworth watches the children play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
Apparently it's a writing kinda time but not exactly a story-writing kinda time.

Alfred Pennyworth had never thought he’d have a family. And then cradled in his arms was a baby with his eyes.

Alfred Pennyworth had thought he’d never be a father. Not after he’d left wife and child behind. And then there was him and a grieving little boy, alone in an empty Manor. 

Alfred Pennyworth had looked at his daughter, and his son, and figured he’d likely never be a grandfather. They proved him wrong. Spectacularly.

Alfred Pennyworth had never, in his wildest dreams, imagined he would be a great-grandfather. Not when he was young, and hadn’t expected to live long. Not when his children had been young adults, and he’d wearily hoped they would live to grow old. Not when he watched his grandchildren throw themselves into danger from childhood, day after day and night after night.

And yet.

Here he is, sitting at one of the porches of Wayne Manor, watching the small army of children tumble and play, carefree and  _ innocent _ in the most marvelous way. Calling to him.  _ Grandpa Alfred, I tagged him, you saw, right? Grandpa Alfred! You can’t babysit in tag! _

_ Grandpa Alfred! Grandpa Alfred! _

He laughs, and settles their childish dispute with practiced ease before  shooing them back to their games.

Alfred Pennyworth is the most content he’s ever been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think there's a universe where this can happen.


	24. Day 24: Dizzy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick coerces Bruce into going out to play with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Batfam Week wasn't an indication, I love writing Bruce ohmygodihaveakidwhat Wayne.

Dick sighed loudly from where he was lying on a training mat, arms and legs flopped around him. “I wish we could go play soccer outside,” he told the ceiling. 

Bruce sighed internally and fought not to reach up to press against his eyes. He loved the kid, really, he did—wait—he loved—okay abort where had he been going with this-- 

“It’s _so boring_ not having anyone to play with.” 

Ah. Yes. Bruce breathed in. It was the weekend. Dick had slept in, Alfred had left to run errands before he’d woken up. Bruce had gotten the kid breakfast (cereal) before bringing Dick down to the cave with him. Last night, Batman had found evidence on a new crime ring that had been popping up on his radar for the past week or so, and the clues were finally coming together. Or they should, anyways. 

But, as Bruce was coming to learn, it was pretty difficult to get any work done with a bored little kid around. Usually he’d let Dick help, and that would make things easier—but this was a case he’d rather keep his Robin away from. 

“Dick,” Bruce said. “You have friends.” 

Dick pushed up into a handstand. “Yeah,_ at school._ But we live in the middle of _nowhere_.” 

“There’s houses nearby. We have neighbors.” 

Dick snorted. “Yeah, like, a mile away. And none of them have_ kids. _Wait—Bruce—weren't you working on that last night?” 

Bruce instinctively closed several windows like a rebellious teenager whose parents had just entered the room. “Hm.” 

Dick appeared at his elbow. Bruce sighed. 

“Did you find anything new?” 

“No.” 

“Oh. Are you_ going_ to find anything new?” 

“...” Bruce was_ so _not qualified to be raising a kid. 

Dick was important. Very important. But the case was also very important—there were lives on the line. But also Dick was the kid he’d taken on responsibility for and was_ also _very important. 

He didn’t want to send the kid away. He also didn’t want a child seeing some of the things involved on the case. 

And also he was spacing out. 

“--Bruce!” 

“Hm?” 

“_Bruce_,” Dick said, with a scarily good (yet adorable) imitation of Alfred’s disapproval, “Were you working on it _all night_?” 

Bruce grunted. Yes, he had, and Dick could obviously tell. Adults were supposed to set examples, right? So he didn’t want to lie, because Dick would know he was lying, but he _also_ did _not_ need his resident eight-year-old to start skipping sleep, so... 

“I’ll tell Alfred.” 

Bruce blinked. _Playing the hard game, huh, kiddo? _“Please don’t.” 

“We--ell,” Dick tapped a finger against his lips, eyes bright and a grin blooming across his face despite obvious attempts to suppress it. “_Maybe_ if you come play soccer with me outside I won’t tell him.” 

Bruce tapped his fingers against the keyboard lightly. He wasn’t going to get anything done until Alfred got home, anyways, was he. 

“Alright,” he said finally, and Dick whooped. 

Bruce fought the twitch of his lips. Maybe this would work out alright. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was reminded, a few nights ago, that no matter how much I love to write sibling stuff I can never truly trap the absolute and utter chaos when a bunch of brothers/cousins decide to go wild. You know the whole braincell thing? Actually makes SENSE to me now. 
> 
> Also I miss my kiddos. I miss all my kiddos so very, very much.


	25. Day 25: Tasty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's good cheesecake, but Tim doesn't have to be the one to eat it, does he?

It’s become something of a tradition for them.

Almost all of them are underage, half of those left don’t drink.

So they go out for cheesecake instead.

(Or bubble tea, or milkshakes, or ice cream. Cheesecake’s just been the leading choice recently.)

No matter where they go, Tim always get a slice of strawberry cheesecake. It’s simple and reliable. Besides, he’s got five siblings to steal desserts from, so he gets to try something new (usually several 'something new's)  _ without _ having to worry about getting stuck with something gross.

Which is the predicament Jason’s currently found himself in, apparently.

Tim has the luck to be sitting next to him, which means Jason is slowly but surely stealing Tim’s cheesecake. Tim elbows and glares but doesn’t really stop him, so every other minute Jason reaches over with his fork and steals another bite.

Jason’s too focused on stealing from both Tim and Duke at the same time, and everyone else is busy enjoying their (and everyone else’s) desserts, so Tim’s the only one who realizes that everyone else is eating more of his own cheesecake than Tim himself, and that it has as much to do with Tim not eating as anything else.

Ah, well. Thank God for Jason then. No one else will notice, the cheesecake won’t go to waste, and Tim can enjoy the evening without someone asking him why he’s not eating. (Tim doesn’t feel like it. It’s all the answer he’s got.)


	26. Day 26: Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the most part, they deal with humans, and science, even if the science, and the lack of humanity, are near-unbelievable...and then there's nights like these.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Though this will probably turn out to be science, too...)

“Okay,” Red Hood said. “What the actual--” 

“Language,” an accented voice interrupted. Followed by someone else’s snickers. Red Hood scowled under his helmet. 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“A preemptive measure, sir.” 

“Hmph.” 

“You sound like B,” Tim chimed in. 

“Shut_ up_, Red Robin. Can we get to the point here?” 

“Do carry on.” 

“What in the_ world_ is _that_?” 

There was silence for a moment. “I believe,” Alfred finally said, “It is some kind of a... twig creature.” 

“A what now?” 

“You heard the man, Red, a giant twig guy.” Red Hood frowned at the three-story-tall, twiggy, barky humanoid ambling through the street. 

“Coordinates, Hood?” Red Robin’s voice was all business now. 

But Red Hood shook his head. “I d’no, Red, he’s just kinda...wandering. Looks a little lost.” 

“I’d imagine he’d look out of place around here if it weren’t for Ivy,” Red Robin noted. 

“Good point, actually,” Red Hood nodded, as Red Robin’s words inspired a question. “What the—what's a _tree_ man doing in the most polluted city on the east coast?” 

“If I may offer an opinion,” Alfred cut in drily, “The most polluted city on the east coast would be an ideal spawning ground for mutant plant men.” 

“What_ is_ it, though?” 

“I am sure I have no idea, sir.” 

“Maybe Ivy knows him,” Red Robin suggested. 

“Sure, yeah, let’s just hit up Poison Ivy.” 

“You could attempt communicating with the creature,” Alfred offered. That...probably should’ve been an obvious consideration. 

“I’ll track down Ivy,” Red Robin put in. “Hood, you go talk to Treeman.” 

“Hold up, why am I talking to the Treeman?” 

“Because you told_ me_ you didn’t need me. Red Robin out,” and there was a faint yet final-sounding click. 

“The little shit,” Jason muttered. 

“Language,” Alfred reprimanded. 

“Sorry.” 

There was a beat. 

“Of course, sir, we could always just watch the creature until the situation suddenly and completely becomes dire.” 

“Alright, alright, I’m going to talk to the Treeman. God, I hate it here.” 

“I heard that, sir.” 

“Sorry A.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this one's not very good, but I'm trying to get writing again because I REALLY don't want to have. Idk. Writer's block or involuntary hiatus or something.


	27. Day 27: Coat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kids like candy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi.  
For the record, this was a light, happy story based on my niece and nephew's obsession with M&M's. (My niece calls them bokus. Bo-koo, plural bokus. No one has the faintest idea why) And the resultant sticky hands. Everything else just happened.

Bruce looked up as his dad slipped into the seat next to him. “Did I miss anything?” he whispered loudly, as he passed a box of popcorn over Bruce’s head to Mom. 

“Did you get them?” Bruce demanded, bouncing in his seat a little. 

Dad made an affronted noise as he produced a flat box of M&M’s from his pocket. “Bruce, have I _ever_ forgotten the M&M’s?” 

“Yes,” Mom said. She was smiling. 

“Lots and lots of times,” Bruce chimed in, even if it might not have_ actually _been lots and lots. 

Dad started to say something, then stopped, thinking. “Huh, that’s true,” he said, and Bruce giggled as the dim lights darkened and the movie screen lit up. 

“What’re you doing, Dickie?” 

Dickie beamed up at his mother. “I’m gonna have the blue M&M’s! Because that’s my favorite color.” He paused a second, then tilted his head with a little frown. “Do you want some blue M&M’s, too, Mami?” 

Mary peeked into the small bowl she’d emptied the bag of M&M’s into, and smirked. “It’s okay, Dickie.” She glanced at her husband with a grin. “I claim the orange ones. You can have the red ones.” 

John leaned over her to peek at the bowl. “Are there more orange ones than red ones or something?” 

“_Excuse_ me,” Mary fake-huffed, as Dickie piped up, 

“Then you can take the red ones_ and_ the brown ones! And Mami can take the orange ones and the green ones and I’LL take the blue ones and the yellow ones. Then we _all_ have a Flying Graysons color.” 

Mary laughed. “That’s very clever, Dickie.” She reached into the bowl and picked out a few M&M’s. “New rule, hm?” 

“That’ll be 25.69, Ma’am.” 

Catherine flipped through the bills in her hand, then pursed her lips thoughtfully and turned to Jason. The kid had his elbows resting on the railing next to the conveyor belt, staring at something on the other side of the store. 

“Jay,” she said, and Jason turned to look at her. 

“Yeah?” 

Catherine nodded at the display of to-go candy bars behind the conveyor belt. “Why don’t you pick something out?” 

Jason raised his eyebrows. “Really?” 

Catherine smiled. “Really.” She considered telling him it was a thank-you for coming to help her cart groceries home, but didn’t. 

Her kid deserved to have a treat for no reason sometimes. Even if ‘because the groceries cost less than Catherine thought they would’ was technically a reason. 

Jason, meanwhile, carefully considered the candy on the shelves. He didn’t really_ get_ candy very often, or _anything_ that wasn’t an essential, really. They weren’t exactly rolling in cash, besides which, money was one of those things Mom and Dad yelled back and forth about. 

Mom let him keep the change after sending him out for groceries; Dad usually demanded it back alongside the receipt to make sure Jason wasn’t holding back. (For that reason, Jason always counted change when he left a store—better an awkward interaction with a clerk than a beating from his dad if it fell short, but if there was a little_ extra_—well, every penny counts, right?) 

But that was alright, because libraries were gloriously free and you only need one soccer ball between, like, ten kids, and Jason would gladly go through life without getting a single cavity. So yeah, really, it was alright. 

He picked a bag of M&M’s, in the end. After all, it was a bag full of small candies instead of just one big one so if he ate them slowly he could make them last a while. 

“Thank you.” The little girl smiled at the girl in black who had beaten off—_three _big, scary men! The older girl smiled, a little, and tipped her head. 

She felt like she should offer something. Something to say_ thank you_. “I wish I could—oh!” she dug her hands into her pockets. They were very deep and very full of all kinds of things. The older girl tensed, ready to run, but the younger was too preoccupied to notice. 

She made a happy sound when she found what she was looking for. “Here!” she beamed, holding up a rolled-up bag of M&Ms. “I already ate half of them, but you can have the rest, if you want.” 

The older girl just watched her. The younger blinked, confused. Oh. It was an M&M’s bag but there could be_ anything_ inside. So she opened the bag and let one M&M fall into her hand. “It’s an M&M, see?” When the other girl still didn’t answer, she started to get confused. “You know? Like candy? I promise they’re not poisoned or anything.” She popped the candy into her mouth, chewed, swallowed and grinned. “See?” 

_ Something_ about that display convinced the other girl, because she slowly reached forward. The younger girl grinned, and gave her the bag. 

The older girl took one M&M and put it in her mouth. Her eyes widened in surprise and she smiled. 

“I’m glad you like them! Thank you again. Very much.” 

She started to turn to leave, but the other girl touched her arm lightly. She turned back around. The girl held out the bag hesitantly, and gestured towards the ground. 

“Huh?” 

The girl screwed up her face, turned, sat down against the wall of the alley, and held out the bag while patting the ground next to her. 

“Oh! Okay. But,” she glanced around nervously. “Do you think we should go...um...somewhere else?” 

The girl just gave her a confident smirk and patted her chest. 

“Yeah, that’s true. Okay.” She made her way over, and sat down. The older girl smiled. 

The two of them shared that hour together, passing the half a bag of candy back and forth as the younger chattered and the older listened with a smile. 

Tim bit down on his lip as he carefully arranged the M&M’s lying on his palm. He used the green and yellow ones to make an ‘R’ and the brown and red ones went all around it while the blue and orange ones got relegated to his fingers. 

“Timothy?” 

Uh oh. 

Clara had given Tim the M&M’s and said they were a special treat for being a good boy that day. Sometimes Mom didn’t mind that Tim ate candy but other times she told him it was unhealthy and to throw it away. 

So Tim quickly cupped his hand so all the M&Ms slid to his palm and dropped them all in his mouth in one go. 

“There you are,” Mom said. She didn’t look happy. She was holding—a book. Tim’s book. That he’d been reading in the living room with Clara. 

Oops. 

“How many times do I have to tell you your books_ remain_ in your bedroom?” She held out the book, and Tim reached for it, but she suddenly pulled it back. 

"What on earth--” Mom looked from Tim’s hands to his face, and Tim tried very hard to make his mouth not look full. Mom’s lips tightened. “Go wash your hands, Timothy.” 

Tim nodded and quickly slipped out of the hall as Mom walked away, hoping Clara and_ Harry Potter_ both made it out of his mess. 

Duke was largely quiet as Mama pushed the cart through the grocery store, engrossed in his book. It had_ dragons_. 

He looked up when he got to the end, and he realized which part of the store they were in. 

“Mama! Bokus?” Duke bounced excitedly in the shopping cart as they approached the candy aisle. 

Mama smiled. “Hmm, that sounds pretty good, baby.” Duke giggled with excitement as she turned into the aisle. 

“The what, now?” Dad asked, sounding confused. 

“Bokus!” Duke cheered, as Mama picked up a bag and waved it towards Dad. 

“M&M’s?” Dad smiled. “Bokus?” 

Mama laughed as she let Duke hold the bag. “Yeah, I don’t really know how that happened, either.” 

Damian stared. “_What_ are you eating, Grayson?” 

Richard looked up from his laptop, then glanced at the small glass bowl next to him on the couch. “What? Oh. M&M’s. You want some?” 

Damian scoffed. “Of course not. Why would I want to consume something likely largely composed of artificial ingredients, with no nutritional value, and that, by the look of it, is marketed towards_ children_?” 

Grayson’s lip twitched upwards, and Damian bristled. Nothing he had said was_ amusing_. 

“They taste good, they’re fun to eat, and so long as you don’t eat a cupful you’ll be fine,” Grayson shrugged. Then made a face. “Not that they even_ taste_ good after a cupful.” 

“Tt.” 

Grayson waved a hand at the bowl. “Well, you’ll never know if you like them if you don’t try,” he said. 

And well. Mother_ had_ always encouraged Damian’s research skills, had she not? 

He took a single candy. Grayson didn’t watch him, instead turning back to his laptop, for which Damian was grateful. 

The candy was...extremely sweet. It didn’t even _taste_ like much beyond artificial sweetness, and Damian very near spat it out for the sake of it before he thought to experimentally bite down. 

The candy shell cracked easily. It was...chocolate. Not high-quality chocolate, but. Well. It wasn’t_ that_ bad. 

He glanced back at Grayson, who was absently picking through the bowl, head still tilted towards the laptop. He removed five blue candies from the bowl. 

Damian frowned. “Do they all taste...different?” 

“Oh, no,” Grayson said casually, then seemed to sense Damian’s raised eyebrow. He glanced at Damian, glanced at his hand, then smiled. It was a smaller smile with...a lot of emotion behind it. Fondness, but also a little embarrassment and a hint of sadness. “Oh, that. It’s just a habit from when I was a kid, I kinda sort them by color while I eat them.” 

It was obviously an emotional topic for Grayson, so Damian changed topics quickly. “What are you doing?” 

“WE stuff,” Grayson said, setting the laptop onto the coffee table in front of him so Damian could see without having to lean into him. “Lucius forwarded some e-mails from Tyson-Farrell...” 

Damian listened closely, and if Grayson didn’t eat_ all_ the candies over the next hour they discussed to proposed deal...well, no one had to know. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also for the record, I'm not being paid by M&Ms for advertising or anythin :P


	28. Day 28: Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim hadn't thought he'd have to deal with this again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's apparently on a roll?  
I swear this always happens when I've actually got things I need to be doing :P

“Fancy seeing you here.” 

Tim looks up from where he sits at the edge of the sidewalk. Dick, helmet under his arm, stands straddling his motorcycle. “Hi, Dick.” 

“Need a ride?” Dick offers. Tim sighs inwardly. There’s no reason for Dick to have been driving past Gotham High right now—he'd just come to see if Tim would still be here. Half an hour after he should’ve been gone. 

History repeats itself, indeed. 

“I should wait.” 

Dick sets his helmet against the handlebar. “Well, you mind some company?” 

Tim knows it’s easier just not to argue. He’s_ surrounded _by stubborn people. “Sure.” 

Dick swings off the bike and settles next to Tim, resting his elbows against his knees. 

“It’s really not worth it, you know,” Tim blurts out. 

Dick tips his head to look at him. “What’s not worth what?” His voice is level, but Tim senses an undercurrent of...something. “I’m gonna need you to be a bit clearer, little brother.” 

_"This_. Me. You. You...coming here. Waiting with me. Not even just. Checking up on me all the time. Dad hates it. You _know _it’s a risk. And it’s not worth—” Tim waves a hand, vaguely gesturing at sky. “_Everything_.” 

Dick contemplates the ground a moment. Then he reaches over, covering the hand fisted against Tim’s jeans, and squeezes softly. Tim bites his lip and stares determinedly at Dick’s bike, but Dick catches his chin, looks him in the eyes until Tim looks back. His voice is quiet but firm. “It is.” 

Just like that. Tim pulls away—Dick lets him—and fights not to wrap his arms around himself. 

His phone buzzes from his lap, and Tim grabs at it, momentarily eager for a thing to do. 

** Dad **

_ In __Bludhaven__, on my way _

_ Slipped my mind be there in 25 _

Tim feels something hot grow in his chest, squeeze his throat, push against his eyes. It’s not fair of him, he knows, it’s not like Dad_ meant _to forget... 

Tim hasn’t had to worry about being picked up late since he was nine and figured out how to get around the city on his own. He hasn’t had to worry about getting around the city on his own since he was twelve. In fact, he didn’t even have to worry about_ being_ on his own for the past four years, and Tim already misses how _easy_ it used to be. It was probably a tall order to expect... 

“The offer still valid?” Tim’s voice comes out hoarse, and he clears his throat. 

“Hm?” 

“The ride.” 

Dick smiles again, that smile that always precedes someone calling him a quesadilla. “Always, Little Brother.” 

_ Don’t bother. I’ve got a ride. _

Tim stands up, shoving his phone into his pocket and slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “Let’s go.” 

Dick stands after him, squeezes his shoulder as Tim reaches for Dick’s spare helmet. “How long have you got?” 

“Half an hour, at least.” 

Dick taps at the handlebar. “Should I drop you home?” 

Tim wants to say no. “Probably.” 

Dick looks almost unbearably sad as he steps closer to pull Tim into a hug. Tim instinctively (immediately) hugs back. 

“You know if you ever need anybody, anything you can call me?” Dick whispers. “If anything ever happens...” 

Tim’s head is tucked under Dick’s chin. He lets himself lean a little more. “I know.” 

Dick presses a kiss against his forehead, and Tim forces himself to pull away a little, just enough so that Dick lets go, too. They should move. 

Dick gets onto the bike. Tim climbs on behind him, wrapping his arms around Dick’s waist. And if he takes a moment to press his face against the back of his older brother’s shoulder... 

There’s no one there to see. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look I know I'm kinda jaded but I can't imagine Jack finding out about Robin and just suddenly becoming Parent of the Year.


	29. Day 29: Injured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim's been here too many times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? Another one? In the same day?  
Yeah I've got like fifteen minutes until I need to start something so that's not enough time to get up and do any of the other things that need doing. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
And GUESS WHAT it's a Dick and Tim week wow

_ Beep. Beep. Beep... _

Tim hates heart monitors. 

The constant, monotonic beeping grates on his ears, sets his teeth on edge. It’s a constant reminder that someone is _hurt, dying, don’t die don’t die please don’t die _\-- 

But on the other hand that monotonic beat means they’re alive. And as much as he wishes he didn’t have to_ hear _that _beeping_ he knows if he doesn’t he will _break_. 

Conclusion: heart monitors are confusing and Tim hates them. 

He sighs, trying to tune out the beeping, and looks over his brother, lying on his back on the bed, covered with a blanket, arms lying straight against his sides and surrounded by tubes. 

Tim squeezes the hand he’s been holding ever since Alfred moved away, and buries his face into the mattress by Dick’s shoulder. 

“Please don’t die,” he whispers. 

_ Beep. Beep. Beep. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Yeah, I have no idea what that was. It was supposed to be longer and Dick was gonna wake up. Hm.  
Anyways I want to start focusing more on Prodigies, but here’s a secret: That story TERRIFIES me.


	30. Day 30: Catch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian was under the impression that only uncultured _children_ caught bugs.

Drake was in Gotham. 

Damian...did not_ like _Drake. But he was clever, which Damian could respect, and skilled, which he could also respect, and he was searching—seemingly successfully—for Father, and Damian could...appreciate that (even if he hardly knew the man). 

His presence also pleased Grayson, which Damian...did not know how to feel about. 

Regardless. Drake was in Gotham, so of course Grayson insisted they spend a day out doing nothing of importance. 

And now here they were, in a field bordering woods in some park, under a tree, having just watched the sunset and now waiting for nightfall, because Grayson had wanted to stargaze. 

(Drake had agreed enthusiastically—perhaps a little_ too_ enthusiastically—which had led to a very awkward few minutes where both ex-Robins seemed to be trying to smooth over _something_ without at all alluding to whatever it was that had been brought up. It may have gone longer if Damian hadn’t impatiently broken them up by demanding that if they _were _to sit in this field for another three hours, they move somewhere with less _mosquitos._) 

And now here they were. Grayson was sitting with his back against a large tree, with Damian to one side of him and Drake to the other. Drake sat with his back against Grayson’s side, head against Grayson’s shoulder, and Grayson had one arm draped over his shoulder. Damian sat cross-legged, one knee pressed against Grayson’s leg and Grayson’s arm resting behind him. 

The last words anyone had spoken had been...long ago. Yet the silence was...peaceful. The sky was a dark blue-gray, leaving the trees surrounding them silhouetted, and every now and then Damian caught sight of a small flash of neon green from a firefly. 

Drake clapped his hands together suddenly, and Damian turned slightly to eye him. 

“_What_ are you doing?” 

“Firefly,” Drake said, like that explained anything, and slowly parted his cupped hands. After a moment, Damian saw the bug take flight, flashing neon green several times before it seemed to melt away. 

“I was under the impression only children caught bugs,” Damian sneered. 

Grayson tilted his head. “You ever catch fireflies, Dami?” 

“Tt. Of course not.” 

Grayson jerked his head slightly, at what, Damian wasn’t sure. “Try it.” 

Damian was about to object, when Drake added, “Don’t squash it.” 

“I can catch a bug without squashing it, _Drake_,” Damian hissed, and immediately started searching for a nearby bug. 

There were so_ many_ of them, darting across the field, flashing green—now here, now gone, only to be replaced by another the next moment, elsewhere—or could it be the same? It didn’t take long for a bug to light up within Damian’s reach, and he cupped his hands, eying the insect for a moment before clapping them together. 

“You got one, Dames?” Grayson asked. 

Damian nodded, feeling the faint tickle of the firefly fluttering within his hands, suddenly aware of how—light and _fragile_ the creature was. He spread his hands apart, slowly, the way Drake had, to reveal the bug standing on the crease between his palm and fingers. 

It didn’t take flight immediately. Instead, it began to crawl across his hand, and he watched, a little mesmerized, as it seemingly_ calmly _traversed to the edge of his palm. 

He turned his hand sideways, focused on the black and red insect now settled on the side of his index finger. It raised its wings, first, lit green, then it was in the air, and away. 

Damian watched it drift near his face, first, flashing, before it disappeared amongst the many other flashes of green. 

The silence suddenly felt prickling, rather than peaceful, and he turned to find both Grayson_ and_ Drake watching him with inscrutable expressions. 

“Well that was entirely pointless,” Damian huffed, and Drake rolled his eyes, disappearing behind Grayson again. 

“I feel like that’s part of the point, Gremlin.” 

Grayson moved, suddenly, and Damian watched him look down at his hands as he opened them, an oddly wistful look on his face. 

“They’re amazing little things, aren’t they?” 

Damian swallowed, and nodded. He turned away again, staring into the sky and the field and the trees, and the next time a firefly ventured close enough, he reached for it.


	31. Day 31: Ripe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They've all explored the Manor grounds--just never together.

It’s Sunday. 

This means family dinner, and since no one is abroad or in space or undercover, all six siblings are at the Manor. But it’s still hours before dinner, and everyone is just a little bored, in the sense that Jason and Damian are now referring to Tim with a made-up IKEA name and yelling at him to “shut up, you’re furniture, furniture doesn’t talk” every time he says anything, Duke doesn’t seem sure yet if he wants to be a part of the scene, and Dick and Cass are decidedly ignoring them as their Uno game gets disturbingly wild. 

The fact that Dick ends up taking responsibility for breaking things up when Damian and Tim end up tussling, falling into the Uno cards, and upsetting Cass who promptly jumps into the fray, (whilst Jason watches in smug amusement and Duke decides he will join the mess after all by cheering for Cass) is extremely ironic to Tim in the sense that he can still remember the years when Dick was the one who constantly trolled him. Still does, often, when it’s just the two of them. 

(Actually, Dick loves trolling all of his siblings so long as it’s just him and one sibling, because he somehow became the eldest brother/pseudo parent who has to deal with the kids having jealousy issues.) 

Anyways. It’s Dick’s idea to go explore the Manor grounds. Which earns him several odd looks. 

“Dude, who here _hasn’t_ already explored like, the entire grounds?” Jason asks, then pointedly looks around at a lack of raised hands. 

“Yeah, by ourselves,” Dick argues. “But never together. I mean, we’ve all probably found cool spots some of us missed.” 

Dick wins out in the end, because there is only so long you can play Uno and call your brother IKEA furniture before it loses its appeal in the face of another option. 

And so, exploring the grounds, it is. 

Dick is only a little surprised to learn that all of his younger siblings have already discovered the tire swing Bruce helped him set up when he was eight. They visit it anyways. 

Tim leads them to an abandoned stable—older than the carriage house closer to the manor. He’s taken some pretty neat pictures here, he says, and seems a little smug when the others are a bit unsettled by the abandoned, weed-choked building. 

Jason decides it’s time to move on. As a kid, he had once decided to follow the creek and found a small pond. This time of year, it’s speckled with water lilies. 

On their way, Damian points out a large tree that seems to be growing around a bit of fence. There’s always a woodpecker that has made its nest in that tree, he says, every spring. 

Cass is the one who knows about the well. It’s not far from the pond, and on the edge are the names ‘Alfred’ (neatly carved) and ‘Bruce’ (more scratched than carved, and all straight lines formed into letters). 

Duke notices..._something_ in the distance that excites him, says, “Hey, there’s something real cool near here,” and rushes them off until they find a mound of rocks. That looks disturbingly like a sleeping dragon. From all angles. 

“Christ, that thing better not come to life one of these days,” Jason huffs. 

Damian hums. 

“Don’t even_ think_ it, Gremlin.” 

On the way back, Dick pauses, says, “Oh, hey.” 

The others stop walking, one by one, to find Dick smiling at some gnarly shrubbery. 

Tim tilts his head. “Blackberries?” 

“No, black raspberries.” 

Jason huffs a laugh. “And...that’s different?” Cass elbows him in the ribs. 

“Well,_ yeah_\--” Dick pauses. 

“Different?” Cass prompts. 

Dick smiles at her. “Yeah. Black raspberries are rounder, blackberries are longer, and they...they _taste _different.” He reaches out, plucking a few berries off the bushes. 

Cass leans in to join him. “Hm,” she hums, staring down at a blob of pulp and dark purple juice staining her hands. 

Dick grins softly. “_And_ they’re softer than blackberries. The center doesn’t come out--you kinda have to ease it off.” 

Cass reaches forward to try again as the rest of the siblings sidle closer. She grins triumptantly as she displays a perfect, whole berry, and Dick beams. 

“Try it,” he says, passing one of his own to Damian. Cass pops the berry in her mouth, then her eyes widen and she beams. 

“Sweet,” she says, and Tim chimes in from behind her: “Wow, they’re_ good_.” 

"Ick.” 

“Dude,_ black _raspberries_._ The red ones aren’t ripe.” 

"I know that, that was an accident. Do I look like an idiot?” 

“Do you actually want--” 

“Shut up.” 

Something beeps. Tim pulls his phone out of his hoodie pocket, then pulls a face. 

“We’re late,” he announces. 

“Damn.” 

“Pennyworth will not be happy,” Damian notes drily. 

Jason pulls off his cap. “Help me fill up.” 

“Bro, that’s nasty.” 

“Whatever. You helping or not?” 

They stumble back to the manor an hour later, to Bruce’s amusement and Alfred’s mild disapproval, ruffled, sweaty, with purple-stained fingers (and faces—don't ask) and an offering of a cap full of black raspberries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s someone who doesn’t know about that Special Place you’re going to show them one day.
> 
> Well, there's another one done. Just in time, too, I guess, cause I'm going visiting which means kids+sharing a room so no more staying up late writing, and the writing rush just disappeared again lol.


End file.
